


Summer Eyes

by searching4neverland



Series: Daybreak Tales [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 167,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searching4neverland/pseuds/searching4neverland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sister for a kingslayer; a princess for a kingdom. A precarious alliance forged through a marrige, and a union that would become as undestroyable as it would be unmendable. </p><p>"-so soon have you forgotten the promise i made you?" ...where you go i shall go, he'd said; where you die i shall die and there shall i be buried.'*<br/>Her hiss drew blood: "You lied then. You lie now." </p><p>(minor jonXsansa)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With the scent of Summer still on you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer for the quote in the begining. Its from the bible i think

_**** _

_**1**. With the scent of Summer still on you..._

 

> _"If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different."_
> 
> _\- A Clash of Kings -_

She had oftentimes heard her mother lament the fact that she was born female. Other times, it had been remarked on with less delicate words.

Myrcella had not been quite as flabbergasted as she should have been by the bluntness of that language. The ladies in waiting who fluttered about her queenly mother’s skirts were anything but the delicate little flowers they liked to pretend to be. By the time she was eight, Myrcella knew more bawdy japes and songs than Joff, who spent his time with the likes of the Hound.

On the other hand, the cultural diversity of said ladies left quite to be desired – something that Myrcella didn’t understand until much later in life, once she realized there was a whole other world outside the Red Keep. Most of the ladies she grew up with were of the westerlands. Little lions without claws, her mother called them. She would sometimes smile when she said so, though it seemed joyless.

Yet, for all the harshness laying a thin inch beneath the sunny looks, the queen had been the sun and moon of Myrcella’s childhood world. Her mother, her little brother and her older one - they were the beginning and the end of everything to the princess, who saw herself wedged between them and loved because of it. But Cersei Lannister was many other things, besides the mother whose smiles Myrcella treasured. She was also a queen, for one: cold and hard, unbending as steel and just as sharp. Her anger as devastating as anything Marcella could ever dream of. But unlike most… well, unlike _all_ those around the queen, Myrcella never feared her mother’s ire, because it was only ever directed at other people. Even in her most furious moments, Cersei was only stern, never cruel. Not with her children.

Myrcella would realize the full shades of her mother’s cruelty only later in her life, when she would become older and wiser in the world. She would then be able to remember the inadequacies of her parents, of the King and Queen, with a cooler temper and sounder judgement. But as a child, Myrcella had been quite content chasing about for her mother’s affections, her father’s attention. Back then ( _and for a long time after_ ) she had not known there were many other forms of affection between family, or other ways of families to be. Her sort of happiness was the only sort she knew.

But childhood had to end for Myrcella Baratheon too.

She did not know it at the time, but if later she had been asked to point exactly _when_ the wheels that ended her childhood started turning, she would go back to the day when she was ten years of age [[A.A2]](http://neverland300690.tumblr.com/post/144506383393/with-the-scent-of-summer-still-on-you-i#_msocom_2) and had been made to attend the funeral of old Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. It was strange how some things whose nature is so mundane, hindsight revealed as momentous turning points. The effect they have on the choices that are made seem to be never-ending, a ripple through history that some man dare call destiny. But rare are those who understand the significance of these moments in the present.

Perhaps wiser people would have known when Jon Arryn drew his last breath, that something was stirring and change was coming. Doubtless, there were those that had been able to smell the blood and fire in the air, felt the beast lurking in the dark.

But Myrcella was not those people – she was a child. She had, at best, a peripheral awareness of the stripped reality of courtly life ( _impossible not to know on_ some _level; she was her mother’s daughter and her mother was a blunt woman_ ). But living among liars had not robbed Myrcella of innocence. She was too young to be a pawn, but more importantly, she had a fierce lioness guarding her from the worst of it - _that_ more than anything had ensured Myrcella shielding from far deeper hurts than any child should bear. She was Cersei Lannister’s only daughter: rue to those who dared sniff around what belonged to the crowned lioness.

So, when the King announced that they were going north, Myrcella was profoundly exited. She wanted to see the vast plains of the North her father always spoke of. She wanted to ride through them on a fast horse. See the Riverlands and the icy mountains behind Winterfell that were said to look like dragon’s teeth. She should very much like to see Winterfell too, the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter, and meet a family that was the stuff of legends in the North, whose lineage, the king said, went back further than any other in Westeros. It all sounded so mysterious and grand and _exiting_!

Though Myrcella kept to herself her particular excitement because she was a princess after all, and a princess never reveals anything to anyone but her own self. Her mother had taught her that.

+

Myrcella of house Baratheon was the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. She was born as such and she had lived as such.

She had been taught to walk with grace since she could land her first steps, to measure her words as soon as she spoke her first one. Taught of courtly manners and a lady’s way before she could even understand there was another way to be. She was a princess of the Iron Throne, a Baratheon of Storms End, and a Lannister of the Rock after that. Only at the very end, in her own chambers without any eyes about, she could be Myrcella, the girl who liked riding better than dancing, drawing better than reading and if she _must_ read, history better than poems, because she never understood poems and they made her feel stupid.  

But even Myrcella of House Baratheon, Princess of the Iron Throne, who had seen more grand keeps and castles than most noble girls her age, had to gape at the sight that Winterfell made when she first laid eyes on it.

Her father had declared many times when upon the road that the first sight of Winterfell was something that you could not shake off from memory and in truth, her father the King turned out to be right.

The keep was made of heavy walls of dark stone. Offset by the iron sky, it rose defiantly off the plains and moors around it, managing to look grim even sorrowed by all the green of summer.

To Myrcella, Winterfell was both fascinating and frightening because it was so very different from everything she had ever known. Different from the warmth of the Red Keep, the elegance of Storm’s End and its white-stone walls, or the tasteful opulence of the Rock. Winterfell was cheerless and looming. It seemed as unmovable and eternal as the mountains around it. It was a fortress that did not pretend to be anything but that – her uncle Jamie had said so under his breath, and Myrcella agreed: there was nothing she could claim as ‘pretty’ about Winterfell. But while she watched it, it occurred to her that maybe the words of House Stark did mean someting. ( _she’d always thought they were stupid – as if people didn’t know how the seasons turn_ ) _‘Winter is coming’_ , the northerners said. Watching Winterfell’s heavy walls, those words to which she’d never seen to point of didn’t seem so stupid anymore, especially since a shiver made its sneaky way up her spine and shook her whole frame, rattling her tiny bones a little.

At that point Myrcella had backed away from the tiny window of the cart and found her seat once more, huddling in her cloak. She was cold. She had been cold for days, but this felt different. She felt sullen and disappointed. She had been waiting to come to Winterfell for a month – the slowest month of her life - but now she was here, and one look at that ugly castle told her she would hate it there.

Nothing so grim could ever be fun and she missed the Red Keep now and its beautiful russet walls.

But maybe it was just the cold wind.

+

Myrcella stepped out of the vault-carriage before her lady mother did, and instantly she felt the familiar prickling of all eyes present settling upon her. It was a thing she was used to, and it did not phase her much, because she knew it would stop the moment her queenly mother appeared.

When she did, the stares moved away and Myrcella felt a little less constrained.

She took in the family waiting for them and they seemed… so normal. Just like any other family, if perhaps a little more pleasant of face than most. She’d almost expected them to look somewhat strange, what a silly notion! They were as every other noblewoman and nobleman she’s seen before… if perhaps less gilded.

Lord Stark’s eyes were as grey as the sky above, just as grave and ‘patient’ was the first thing Myrcella thought of when she saw him. Lady Stark looked different with her vivid red hair and summer-blue-sky eyes. She was pretty, but not the same way her mother was. In fact, there could be no comparison between her mother and this other mother. But that was not unexpected: nobody was like her mother, Myrcella knew that, because her mother was the queen and the queen was unlike any other woman alive.

And the Queen’s hardness, that dangerous glint in her green eyes, was there for all to see when the King ignored her for the crypts of Winterfell.

There had always been whispers about the King’s great beloved from the north ( _if her mother knew of these whispers, she would cut off the lips that uttered them. Myrcella knew that to be true_ ). Even Myrcella had heard them, though seldom understood them. There were no names to the stories. Only mentions of loves that were lost and a great many other sad things.

Later in life, when she will be grown enough to understand the story, Myrcella will think these stories pathetic and she will despise them. Years and experience will convince Myrcella that the love of men is not to be trusted ( _fickle, weak thing that it is_ ). And yet, despite all that evidence stacked as proof, it will be that moment when they arrived at Winterfell and the King scorned his Queen so openly in favour of an 18 year old ghost, that mind will always go back to first.

+

Myrcella thinks, wrongly, that she has a fair grasp of courtly life and its intrigues. She has learned from a very early hour that everyone in the Red Keep lies.

 _‘You are above it all’_ her mother always said. ’ _You are the lion. It is for lower beasts to fear you._ ’ But Myrcella knows she is no lion. She has no claws, no sharp teeth. At the very best, she is a little doe in the forest - though not even the Baratheon name suits her. She has no fury which to call her own.

But she has manners and politeness and the willingness to take her mother’s lessons to heart, because being a princess means you get to build yourself in layers.

None of that prepares her for the King’s death. Or what comes after.

Her brother _is_ made king. Only days after that, the walls of the keep are stained red with northern blood. Lord Eddard, her father’s dear friend, is first thrown in chains and then executed, and Myrcella thinks she doesn’t know anything anymore. There’s talk of treason and war; strange names float around – names like the Young Wolf, the boy who used to be Robb Stark to her, not even some months ago. They say he is terrorizing the armies  of the crown. She hears that he is a traitor. A monster who feasts on the flesh of the dead, who kills children and rapes women… and it all sounds horrible that she cannot even imagine it. She has never known horror, even words of terrible deeds are just words to her.

But then one day, Myrcella watches the smile on her handsome brother’s face as Sansa is beaten before his court and stripped and humiliated. She watches with mounting horror the pleasure Joff takes in it all – and her brothers cruelty feels more real to her than any savagery in a distant field somewhere she had never been, because his cruelty is playful. It frightens her for the first time in her life.

Joffrey had never daunted her before. He had played cruel tricks on her and Tommen but they were children and even when Joffrey was atrocious, Myrcella had never felt fear because of him.

Now it’s different.

He is _king_ now, and there is no stopping him, because he can do as he likes and there is nobody there to tell him different. Joffrey is the first to realize it… and he delights in it. As Myrcella’s weariness of her brother grows, so does her distance from him, when she can help it. Her mother knows, she _knows_ and whispers to Myrcella that a King must pay a heavy toll for their people’s obedience, but that Joffrey would never harm a hair on her head because Myrcella is his blood and _'we do not hurt family, we are lions and we protect our own.’_

Myrcella listens, and her mother’s love compels her to believe but but other things feel more real now. She watches Sansa stare at the horizon as they pretend to sew in her chambers, Lannister ladies busy as bees and merry around them… and she starts to doubt her mother’s words, for the very first time in her life.

+

Myrcella does not grow apart from her family, but she questions what she sees more often than ever. She loves her mother, but even at one-and-ten Myrcella knows that sometimes the queen is wrong, that her coldness isn’t always strength and that her pride is sometimes cruel, because cruelty has many faces and nobody is there to spare the princess of them anymore.

There is no shelter, not from war. And war is raging.

And yet, even knowing all this, it still feels like an unbelievable dream when she is told she is to be sent to Dorne.

 _Dorne_ , whose darling princess was raped and murdered by order of her grandfather. Oh yes, Myrcella knows the story. You can’t live in the Red Keep and not know the names of all those who died there. Myrcella thinks of Sansa, of the casual evil her brother does by her, just because he likes to hear her scream. On her last night in the Red Keep she cries for a long time, because she wants to exhaust her tears while she is in her rooms. Tomorrow in the shipyards, she will be the princess. There will be no place for tears then.

+

Dorne is not an easy place to live in for someone that looks like the incarnation of a Lannister icon… but it’s not the hell Myrcella imagined it to be either. She almost grows used to it; to the distant resentment and the open-sky captivity of Sunspear. She feels the people’s contempt, but she knows she is lucky: there are no cruelties, no beatings, no sudden and inexplicable attacks.

And there is Trystane.

Sweet Trystane who teaches her the dornish language so patiently. Who answers her every inquisitive question and plays her favourite games with her when she misses Tommy too much to smile. The ache she feels for home, for her family, her little brother throbs like a never-healing wound. She misses the solace they found on each other, his earnest sweetness that made every place without him feel lonely… Never had Myrcella had to endure missing him, because never before had she been parted from him. Her mind is heavy with the thought of him alone in the Red Keep now. It makes her every happiness turn a little bit to ash in her mouth.

At first, Trystane is the only reason she does not cry every night. But in time, she learns to make friends and soon enough smiles find her lips again.

Other things find her too.

As in all alcoves of power, Sunspear too plays the games of shadows. Myrcella can see the strings that make people dance a little bit better now – because she feels their constrains around her own wrists and ankles. They chafe hard enough to bruise sometimes. ( _she seems patterns she recognises from her childhood, and for which she never had a name until now_ ) Her mother had told her not to trust anyone, that they would try to use her, that they would try to hurt her. _Use what I taught you_ , Cersei Lannister had said… but Myrcella had felt lost, because she had never even known she’d been given any lessons on how to be a prisoner.

Time teaches her that she can be quick in catching the drift of things, when she is paying attention. Her mind has run the distance when other people’s has yet to turn the corner. Time also teaches her to always pay attention. She _has_ to, to save herself from the stinging bite of humiliation. She learns the tunes to dance to by watching those that play the game: Arianne and the Snakes, the ruling prince and his court. The realization comes like an awakening: it’s about knowing people. Their history and their anger; who they are, what they want. And knowing yourself. You have to know what _you_ want too, and how far you’re prepared to go to get it.

Manipulation, Tyene calls it, eyes gleaming in the dark. Myrcella doesn’t like how that sounds, but cannot help it: it’s the truth. Her grandfather’s granite eyes come to mind and she shudders every time she thinks she might be anything like him… she _can’t_ be, she’s afraid of the man. If she were anything like him she’d be afraid of herself, and she is very careful not to do anything that might bring her to that.

But the game has its high points: knowing that she can take care of herself brings Myrcella a sort of exhilarating thrill she has rarely felt before. Knowing that she has the skill to sometimes get people to do the things she wants, that has its own appeal too, but most of the time, lying gets exhausting.

 _‘You lack the hunger’_ , princess Arianne tells her one night. _‘You don’t play for power. Strange trait to have, for a Lannister.’_

The princess cannot seem to understand that the most Myrcella wants is _not_ to play at all. That being used is what Myrcella fights to prevent, nothing more. Because in Sunspear Myrcella has come to a painful understanding: being born a princess means that she will be forever part of this dark game of shadows. She will never be free of it, ever. Her blood demands it, and always would. Even if the kingdom fell tomorrow and her brother a was king no longer, she’d still be part of the repercussions: she was born a princess and for that she would have to die. Myrcella has been a pawn since her first breath - and a woman too. It’s then, once she has her feet sunken in the hot sands of Dorne, that she finally, _finally_ , understands her mother’s regret at the missing cock between her legs.

Though perhaps not in the same way her mother had meant. Sunspear is different in that respect. They does not see women as unfit to wield power here. Dorne is the land of queen Nymeria, where women are not bred to be toothless. They are as openly fierce as they chose to be and not shamed or mocked for it.

‘ _Woman or not, doesn’t matter here. As long as you’re willing, you can be queen_.’

Arianne is the very first to tell her that.

_‘Don’t you want to be your own master?’_

Myrcella is smart enough to know that Arianne is playing her, calling on that helplessness that Myrcella sometimes feels, the resentment for others leading her life. Arianne is too shrewd, and that is why Myrcella doesn’t trust her. But Myrcella cannot deny the seductiveness of that faraway prospect: to be in nobody’s power but her own.

What a thought! What a _dream_ …

A queen, Myrcella thinks… and yet all she can conjure is her mother’s resentful face, who seems to hate her life with the exact measure that she loves the power it entails.

No, Myrcella thinks, she would rather _not_ be queen anywhere. She is not very fond of crowns anyway: they seem to do queer things to the heads beneath them. She wants quiet instead, and to live her life free of hatred and lies… and power breeds hatred and lies more than anything else it might grant. Myrcella knows that better than most. Robert Baratheon spent his whole reign telling everyone with ears it wasn’t worth it, and that is the one lesson that Myrcella has kept from the man she had once called father.

So she chooses to be happy with her handsome sweet prince instead. Dorne is far enough from the rest of Westeros that this fantasy of hers  seems more real there than it would have been anywhere else. And Trystane is perhaps the one man that Myrcella can imagine herself being happy with. He is nothing like Robert Baratheon or Joffrey, for one, and not once does he touch without permission or unkindly – something that Myrcella values almost above everything else.

But there are other things about Trystane, more private things. Things she learns slowly and that bring them closer. He is her best friend soon enough. It’s easy to love him, and Myrcella loves him sweetly, as only one of three and ten can love.

But a quiet simple life was never meant for a princess and somewhere in her heart, where her mother’s whispers always rang loudest, Myrcella had always known that.

 

* * *

 

 

> _You sleep coiled; tightly wound.  
>  Hands are fists beneath pillows,   
> clenched above cotton sheets._
> 
> _You are at war, even in your dreams._
> 
> \- [REST ACHILLES, THE WORLD WILL WAIT](http://lostcap.tumblr.com/post/138171750328/you-sleep-coiled-tightly-wound-hands-are-fists) | [P.D](http://lostcap.tumblr.com/) 

They were attacked by a band of rogues, they said. Just on the day when there were few enough guards for true harm to be done.

She had been terrified, but Trystane pushed her behind himself and drew steel to fight. He was five and ten and he looked very much like a man then, when he slashed open the belly of the one that would have cut him down. It looked to be over and Trystane was helping Myrcella up on her feet when an arrow speared through his head, splattering her with his blood. By the time he was picked up off of her, she was covered in his blood.

She will know the taste of it till the day she dies.

_That_ is when the Princess first has a taste of hatred, and not before.

And that was how Myrcella of House Baratheon finally owned her fury and how she discovered the  one thing nobody ever told her about hate: they say it burns ( _and by all the gods, it does_!), but why do they never say how it _hurts_? Because it _did_! It was a slow scorch across her veins. One she had so steadily avoided, one that made her feel cold and small and mean and _lesser_. An emotional tide so foreign within her, that it felt unnatural as much as it was part of her. Myrcella tried to control it, because she could not stand the way it alienated her from what she had known of her own nature.

_Ours is the fury! How very presumptuous of us…_

Fury belonged to every soul – but was only survived by those who knew how to tame it. How to _use_ it. She too had to find a way to do that, because the one thing that she had not forgotten was the King – Robert Baratheon, who was fury as unleashed as the hurricanes that battered the walls of Storm’s End. Feeling without measure, without restrain - and how she had never once wanted to be anything like him.

+

She returns to King’s Landing different, and finds a different place. She has a good foot of height more than she did when she left, a new scar on her cheek ( _and others hidden beneath the slippery silks of her dress_ ) that makes grown men cringe, and new steel in her bones. The Myrcella who returns is not a child anymore, nor has she been for a while. Or so she thinks. She _feels_ different, and that is a certainty. Seven and ten is early to think herself a woman, but then again, perhaps not.

She enters the Keep and she sees her mother and her Kingly brother, sweet Tommen by their side. They are all so different. Time has marked them all. Tommy is almost as tall as she is now.

Only when she sees her little brother and his so open smile, does Myrcella feel even a small ounce of joy at being brought back to this place she’d once called home. After the ceremony is done, she is finally free to hold Tommen tightly to herself, his soft hair between her fingers and smooth cheeks under her lips. They smile at each other and for a short moment all is well.

That moment is short-lived.

Joff is even more unhinged than she remembers, and her mother’s shiny eyes hurt, because her daughter’s love feels different now. But Myrcella has been taught well. Too well. To be a princess first, a Baratheon second ( _though she never has been that_ ), a Lannister after that… and in the very last instance, a daughter.

_A bastard…_

The queen does not like the politeness of Myrcella’s address, even in their chambers; the formality as if between strangers. It hurts Cersei perhaps, when she sees how unchanged Myrcella is with Tommen, how freely she gives her love and sweetness to the brother she’d so missed, and how stubbornly she denies it to all the rest. Myrcella does not like to hurt her mother, but with the things she had heard and what she has seen, believing that this woman is really someone who loves her well feels on the verge of the unreal. The resentment over everything she’s learned is too fresh every time she looks upon that queenly face, to pretend otherwise.

How could Cersei Lannister love her daughter, when she made her and her brothers bastards? When she allowed a monstrosity like Joffrey sit his puny arse on that ugly chair? And if it’s true still that her queenly mother loves her, if Myrcella were to believe it, then what did that mean? What kind of person was this woman that had borne her? So strong, so hard… so foreign now, after so long without her.

_‘Who am I to hate her for it’_ Myrcella asks herself more than once. She has no answer for that either.

But the truth remains that seeing who her mother has become is a blow that lands hard, and after being so long away from her own family, being privy now to the many shades of their depravity, lands even harder.

_Is it any wonder_ , she thinks one night, _that all the realm scorns us, that they hate us?_

But Myrcella is not just a subject to her queen. She is also her mother’s daughter and there are things that she wants to know, questions that she wants to ask. Questions like, ‘ _who is my father, really’_ , because she wants to her the truth from her own mother’s lips – or perhaps because she wants to see if there will be a lie, even to her face. She could ask ‘ _why did you do it_ ’, but Myrcella cannot resent her mother for betraying the kind of husband Robert Baratheon was to Cersei Lannister. The next question on anyone else’s mind would be ‘ _why on the seven hells with your own brother?_ ’ but that is the one question Myrcella never considers, because never will she ever be able to understand it.

Contradictions rise and clash inside her but Myrcella doesn’t speak them, she won’t. Too much has passed and it’s been too long since she trusted anyone. Besides, there are no answers she actually _needs,_ not anymore.

It seems that after so long in Dorne, Myrcella really has become the girl with no father. Perhaps, after going so long without, she truly is a girl who doesn’t need one.

+

She knows she is being watched. She feels eyes following her everywhere she goes. She considers playing a game on them once or twice, just to let those who would presume to spy on her know that she is not as oblivious as she seems. But Dorne and the Sand Snakes have taught her well: you’re to know your strengths and cloak yourself in your weaknesses, and never let anyone know the difference until it’s too late and the blade has already slipped between their ribs, quiet as you like…

Myrcella catches herself thinking thus, and realizes with some surprise that she is still thinking as she used to when she felt unsafe… and among enemies.

She feels the tickle of guilt, almost instantaneous, but then the princess wonders: _why_ should she rethink it? The Red keep has always been a dangerous place. The only thing that is different, is Myrcella herself: now that she looks at it with more weathered eyes, the shadows loom large and the filth cannot be ignore. It’s not the polished stones and gleaming fabrics: it’s the secrets piled in corners, holding daggers. So instead of showing to all who have eyes that she is not just a sweet little girl anymore, Myrcella invites Sansa to have tea with her in the gardens and spend as much time with her and Tommen as she can, ever so discretely dwindling the number of her ladies-in-waiting down to those that she can actually stand listening to.

Sansa comes, and Myrcella leaves her be. They eat in silence, read in silence, sometimes play with Tommen’s kittens and tell him stories.

There are eyes on Sansa too, one pair in particular, but Myrcella thinks the other girl knows that already.

Mostly, Myrcella just spends days in the sun with her little brother. He’s grown tall and lost the baby-fat of his round cheeks, but he is still just a boy of two and ten, and Myrcella cannot help but see him as even younger than that. They speak incessantly, of everything they have been doing and learning. Myrcella feels herself grow light with love whenever she is with him. The one thing of her that has not changed one bit apparently, is how much she dotes on her little brother. He is, now more than ever, the only ray of sunshine in the obscure place that the Red Keep has become. He is still so pure, so innocent, so fiercely capable of love… something that Myrcella sees with both wonder and terrifying dread. She fears what could happen to him in this place… or anywhere else, of that matter. But she also  loves him most for it, with a protectiveness that she had never felt for anyone before. It tastes remarkably like fear, this feeling.  It brings back ghosts, as well.

Tommen has so much goodness left in him. Sometimes when they are together, the last few years she has spent in Dorne feel like a weight on Myrcella’s back. She’s grown and learned  lessons that perhaps she might have rather avoided, and being around Tommen breathes life on the girl she once used to be and who is now dead. But then Tommen pushes the darkness away with a smile and Myrcella finds herself telling him of Sunspear and the Watergardens, of Hellhold and the Salt Shore, or the Red Waste between Vaith and Starfall. Her brother listens like she is telling fantastic tales, and Myrcella kisses his cheek for it, even when he squirms.

He asks her about her scar only once. Myrcella promises she will tell him one day, when he is older, because out of all her stories, _that_ one is the one that would give her brother nightmares for sure.

There is the kind of understanding in Tommen’s eyes that startles her – an understanding of pain – but it’s gone so fast that Myrcella has barely the time to register it.

Later, in her room, she will shed those few tears she has left for her little brother, and his lost innocence. In her heart of hearts Myrcella had known that he too would be changed by time. Of course he would be. How could he not? Tommen is still a boy, but he is a prince; he is Joffrey’s heir, Cersei’s son, he lives in the Red Keep. It is a wonder her brother has any sweetness left at all! She’d hoped he would be the same and her sweet brother, he had known. He has tried to be what she’d needed him to be. It is that in the end, that bridges the gap of years and brings them closer.

Myrcella does not call Tommen on his changes. They are themselves with one another, and sweet to each other. For her part, she finds a rare sort of joy in overwhelming Tommen with kindness. She devotes all the love and gentleness she is capable of to him ( _maybe even so that she can prove to herself she has not yet forgotten how to be that way_ )

But for every alcove in the sun that she makes with Tommen, there is a queer glance that she gets from Joffrey, and Myrcella does not miss any of them, or the looks the King reserves for his brother. She would ask the queen ( _even the Lord Hand, her grandfather_ ) to send Tommen away from the Red Keep, if only there were any places safer for Tommen to be. But there are none, and Myrcella knows her mother would never consider it, either way. _‘Everyone who is not us is the enemy’_ she used to say, and time has not made her mother any more prone to alliances.

So Myrcella keeps her mouth tightly pursed and her eyes sharp and tells herself not to be so angry: after all, this was not the first time Cersei Lannister had been wrong.

+

When her mother snaps at her one night, patience running as thin as ever, Myrcella startles, but manages to keep being composed. She dabs the corner of her mouth and puts the soft cloth down, clearly done with the meal.

“You look at me and you don’t like what you see,” She speaks the words calmly, without feeling. Looks at her queen in the eye. “But this is the price, mother. This is the price for belonging to you.”

She speaks honestly, without real intent to harm. She speaks a truth that she had discovered in the sands of Dorne: We all pay a price for the blood that flows in our veins, even if our only fault is being born. The price is paid in pieces of one’s soul. To Myrcella that simply spoke of growing up in a world that was as awful as you fear it to be, and where the worst that could happen usually happened - unless you found a way to make it otherwise. That was why it had been _her_ choice to grow claws in the heat of the desert. She’d _chosen_ to do so, before the choice had been made for her. She had chosen the pieces of her soul that were to be gifted to the sands, sacrificed for new eyes which could see the world more clearly.

‘ _The sands of Dorne are full of secrets_ ’, Obara had told her. They would keep Myrcella’s secrets as well as they had kept others for thousands of years before her.

Her mother stares at her over their dinner. The queen’s expression is hard, but Myrcella knows she is not hated. She knows that in all likehood nobody ever did love her with Cersei’s fierceness, but Myrcella still feels the need to leave the room. There are many ways to love, and Cersei Lannister’s love is barbed, it’s poisons. One cannot stand it for long and remain whole.

_‘May I be excused’_ she asks, and Cersei denies her, but her grandfather sends Myrcella of off with a wave of his hand.

She leaves… and keeps filling her days with books and quiet corners, and Sansa Stark’s sad and silent presence, because it’s safe to say that both girls know neither will disturb the other and it’s the closest to peace they are likely to find, so they are both content in that.

+

The Tyrells are at court – have been since Renly Baratheon died - and Sansa has been put aside for the doe-eyed Rose of Highgarden ( _the blossom-related japes her uncle spouted in between snorts of laughter were priceless_ ). The two richest houses of Westeros united. Nothing could possibly stand long against them, they say.

Except Myrcella is not exactly most people. Most people do not keep company with Tyrion Lannister and share at least one meal a day with the hand of the King, and ( _unfortunately_ ) the king himself, who has an unhealthy disposition for disclosing information that should stay within his council chambers. It’s how she knows the war is not going well. It’s a bloody disaster, as far as Myrcella can tell, but then again she is no general.

Uncle Jamie had been captured by the wolves months ago ( _she hadn’t seen him in years… and, though albeit resentfully, she had missed him. She’d missed the man she’d known him as: an uncle. He’d never been a father_ ). Knowing that puts her mother’s fierce moods into perspective. The Riverlands are free, the Wesfold is under attack. The northerners are nowhere near as defeated as her grandfather would have them, but for the moment they are not the Lannister’s most dangerous enemy, because Stannis Baratheon now has most of the Stormlods under his banner and Myrcella doesn’t need to be told where he will take them next. She would know that even if she weren’t aware that her grandfather and Uncle Tyrion are preparing the city for a siege.

It’s almost funny now, but apparently there was a reason why Myrcella was spirited out of Dorne so suddenly and the reason is simple ( _though only her uncle Tyrion bothered to explain it all to her_ ). Had she stayed, she would have been gifted to the Northerners and then Robb Stark would have himself a Princess too, as well as Tywin Lannister’s heir, because Dorne had finally entered the war, and it had chosen to stand with the North… or rather, against the crown.

The true surprise is that they are proving much more overwhelming than anyone had ever thought, for a reason no one had dared predict. Where Dorne had always lacked for men, now it did no longer: sellswords of Essos had swelled their numbers and bore the speared sun of Dorne on their chests as well as their own symbols, fighting for Oberyn Martell alongside the Young Wolf.

Myrcella remembers when the rumours had reached Dorne, some time ago, that the Young Wolf had been killed. That he’d been betrayed somewhere, by one of his own. Greatly exaggerated rumours, apparently, since Robb Stark is very much alive and while the Blackfish defends the Riverlands and a good part of the northern army is in the process of fighting off the Second Ironborn Rebellion, the King of Winter and Oberyn Martell are steadily advancing for the westerlands, plundering and killing as they go, scorching earth and rock alike. At some point it is believed that Kevan Lannister has been taken captive – though that turned out to be a lie. Not the part about him being soundly defeated at the Crag though.

How on the seven hells had Robb Stark convinced the dornish prince to fight for him nobody seems to be sure of, and to Myrcella that is intolerably stupid. As if Prince Oberyn needed to be told twice when it came to killing Lannisters! But her grandfather had been counting on Myrcella’s worth as a hostage, on Doran Martell’s cautious and opportunistic nature, to keep Dorne at bay. He had made the mistake of underestimating the festering hatred that all of Dorne bore the Lannisters for killing their princess so savagely.

Myrcella on the other hand had felt that hatred on her skin - she was not so quick to dismiss it.

All in all, and in uncle Tyrion, the Lannisters were, at the moment, poised to be fucked from both sides and not in the fun way either. Between the prospect of Stannis attacking King’s Landing and Robb Stark marching for the Rock, the choice was not an easy one. If her grandfather didn’t make a decision soon, he would soon find himself without a home, because after the devastation that the Mountain had left behind in the Riverlands, everyone expected the Young Wolf to dispense savage retaliation in turn.

The truth of it is that they are walking the knife’s blade. One wrong move and they would fall on it. The knowledge of it beats in Myrcella’s breast like a second heart. Everyone knows what happens to princesses of the losing side. Nobody speaks of it, but the truth is in the queen’s penchant for drink at the dinner table, as it is in Joffrey newfound brand of cruelty. Apparently, five years in Dorne has made Myrcella dornish in her kingly brother’s eyes, so he starts taking his frustration out on her more often than not. For the most part Myrcella bears it with the dignity instilled in her from her very first breath. She exercises much needed restrain when he ridicules her in front of all the high nobility of King’s Landing.

‘ _show us your ear Myrcella, I want to see it. It’s not every day we get mutilated freak for a princess’_.

There is no other way. Joffrey may be vicious, but he is also the King, much to the eternal woe of all seven Kingdoms. He is therefore to be borne by all, his sister included. Generally, people ignore the bruises left behind; they look at her in the face and smile, as if nothing is wrong at all and _that_ more than the abuse makes Myrcella want to claw their eyes out.

The only one that dares not look at her in the eye is Sansa Stark, the traitors daughter who knows exactly how it feels. Sansa can’t afford to trust a Lannister, and Myrcella can’t afford to trust Sansa either. Its only in silence that their companionship is possible. If they fall into words they betray themselves.

In the end it doesn’t matter. Because strangely enough, it’s in her mother that the greater part of Myrcella’s anger calcifies. The queen is the only one that seems to want to _earn_ Myrcella’s contempt – and it’s not an easy thing to do. Every drip of it makes Myrcella feel as if her insides are being torn. And maybe it’s twisted, but Myrcella feels strangely free to scorn her mother precisely because that scorn is not without its price. If she is still capable of hurting over it, then she is not as bad as she feels she is for hating her mother, as well as loving her.  

“You should have been born barren.” Myrcella says one night, in a peculiar fit of rage that comes from nowhere.

But she speaks with such calm fury that it startles even her always-impassive uncle, and his usually so mocking gaze becomes contemplative, just before her mother’s slap make Myrcella’s eyes sting a little. It doesn’t even hurt, though her cheek is still tinted with purple where the last remnants of violence have not yet ebbed away.

Myrcella’s indifference at the violence is perhaps a greater punishment for Cersei than any other reaction her daughter might have had… but Tyrion does not say that out loud while the girl is there. He still holds to what he told Cersei almost five years before: he does not blame Myrcella for her mother at all.

+

The queen is half in her cups before dinner even starts, and Joffrey seems angrier than Myrcella has ever seen him. It’s funny to watch, actually, and had it not been tantamount to forfeiting her life, she would have laughed soundly at his flustered scowling face. It reminded her of the jackals princess Arianne used to keep confined in Sunspear’s Gardens. It’s only their grandfather’s presence that keeps Joffrey in line. Myrcella isn’t at all surprised by this. In life, the only thing monsters fear are even bigger monsters. But at least Tywin Lannister is not a vicious idiot like her most noble, kingly brother.  

When Sansa Stark enters the room however, Myrcella is stunned. Something is afoot, she thinks, and before Joffrey can so much as open his mouth, she stand and goes towards the girl, taking her hands and kissing her cheeks as if they had not seen each other in days when in fact they were together just hours before, sharing the same sunny spot in Tommen’s room.

“Sansa, darling, how have you been?”

“I am well. Thank you, your grace.” Sansa responds, polite as ever.

Myrcella’s smile pulls at the skin of her cheeks. “Come sit by me, I’ve missed you.”

And it’s not a suggestion as Myrcella walks towards her own seat, the one as far away from Joffrey as possible without being in the other room.

“Why are you so familiar?” Joffrey snaps, his irritation hotter than usual. “She is a traitors daughter, she should be flogged every day not greeted by a princess – even one as deformed as you.”

Myrcella doesn’t even blink. “I have not forgotten who the girl is, your grace. But I have grown a certain fascination for pretty things lately and Sansa does not mind indulging me.”

“Ever since you lost your own beauty, you mean?” Joffrey sneers. The queen throws him a hard glare, as Myrcella sits down and proceeds to make idiotic small talk with the wolf among the hungry lions. At the same time her mind is working furiously.

_What is going on?_

Her grandfather illuminates them the moment the servants leave the room.

“Lady Sansa.” His voice is enough to stop all conversation. “You are to be returned to your brother in a fortnight in exchange for my son. It is his only term for peace between our Kingdoms and so it shall be.”

Sansa’s fork drops on her plate and she turns as white as a chalk, eyes brimming with tears in a matter of moments able of doing nothing more than staring at her plate and trying to breathe.

Myrcella on the other hand, is calculating the odds.

So, Robb Stark had overrun the westerlands then? She wonders if maybe he even had breached Casterly Rock. That is the only reason she can think of that would make grandfather so willing to allow a break between the seven Kingdoms. Had the Young Wolf burned everything? Or is _that_ the sword he is holding over Tywin Lannister’s neck?

Myrcella fights a smile, though there was precious little to be amused. But she can appreciate the simplicity of it, as well as the brilliance: the Young Wolf has found the one thing that matters to her grandfather more than his pride, and that is his _Lannister_ pride. He won’t leave much to his heirs if the Rock is but a burned ruin, will he?

“Are you listening girl?”

Both she and Sansa look up at the same time, Sansa perhaps a little more startled than Myrcella, but both mirroring the same expression. It is in _Myrcella’s_ eyes that Tywin is looking, however.

“As part of the arrangement, you are to marry Robb Stark, ensuring the continuation of peace between our realms, along with several other marriages between his close kin and ours, which is none of your concern.”

The sound of glass smashing against the wall draws everyone’s attention. To Myrcella it feels very adequate: her own mind had just broken apart in quite a similar fashion, only more quietly.

But Cersei has never been the quiet type.

“I will _not_ let this happen to my daughter again!”

Myrcella looks at her mother and she knows that her eyes are shocked and perhaps even pleading. She feels like a  girl again in the face of Cersei’s ferocity, trying to protect her just like it had once, when Myrcella had been a child.

Her grandfather does not seem impressed.

“Control yourself.” is all he says, and says it with such disdain that it is a wonder her mother does not shrink a couple of inches. But Myrcella is only vaguely aware of it. Her mind is struggling to piece itself back together and form some sort of sensible response to all this… this…

This could _not_ happen. She would _not_ be another Elia of Dorne, another Sansa of the Red Keep. He could not mean it, not even Tywin Lannister was not… oh, _oh_ but he _was_. He most certainly _is_. Another man, perhaps not; but Tywin Lannister is precisely _that_ sort of man!

Myrcella feels the knowledge still in her mind and take root, even though part of her feels completely aghast at the idea. The other part, the part that had grown in her after the Darkstar slashed her open, resolves to do anything but plead and rage like a wounded animal. Instead she needs to think of a solution.

Nobody will save her here. She has to save herself.

She should have expected it, she tells herself. In a way she had known: out of the two attacking armies they faced, only one was prepared to discuss peace and that was Robb Stark, because he, unlike uncle Stannis, did not want anything to do with the south at all. He only wanted his sister.

Myrcella had known that. What she had forgotten had been herself - her blood and her worth as a Princess: her womb.

“I will not let you sell her to savages that are as likely to rip her limb from limb as they are to keep her as queen!” Cersei hisses through tightly gritted teeth. “I’d rather see her dead, here and now!”

Myrcella feels shivers run up and down her spine. She has not even noticed that Sansa has been holding her hand under the table.

“Cersei…” Uncle Tyrion tries, but her mother is snarling at _him_ now, and he is not grandfather - which means she does not contain herself with him. Her expression becomes downright poisonous.

“This is _your_ doing! I _know_ it is. As it was your scheming that send her to Dorne in the first place.” she grits out, lips pulled back like a snarling lioness. “Why does she even have to go? What assurance do we have that he will even wed her? He could kill her the second he has his sister!”

“He won’t.” Her grandfather says and there is such assurance in his tone that Myrcella finds herself frowning… because for once her mother is very much right.

Tywin really doesn’t have any certainty that Robb Stark would honour his word. Even if the King in the North was the most honourable man alive, her grandfather doesn’t believe in such frivolities as words of honour. There simply _has_ to be something more. Something that Tywin Lannister is holding over the Winter King’s neck. Something, Myrcella quickly reasons, that will explain how on earth had he managed to convince Robb Stark of wedding the enemy when the war was all but in the Wolf’s favour. She has no idea what it is of course – except for Sansa, they really have nothing that Robb Stark would want.

What kind of devilry has Tywin Lannister concocted this time to have his way?

“You don’t _know_ that!” Cersei insists, almost screaming this time. “Just give that stupid girl back to them and let them freeze off on their northern barrenness. It’s no concern of ours!”

“Enough!” Grandfather’s voice is like a whiplash. “It’s done and it’s final. Now sit down and stop making a fool of yourself.”

_He is so imperious_ , Myrcella thinks. _Why do we always do what he says? What is this power he holds over our heads_?

What would happen if she gets up right now, looked at him dead in the eye and said _‘I won’t_ ’; same as she had seen Arianne do half a hundred times with her own father. Uncle Jamie had been able to do it too. He had stood up in front of Tywin Lannister the Immortal and said _no_! If he could do it, why not his the girl that is his flesh and blood?

Myrcella sighs and looks at her plate. Why not, indeed.

…the reason is simple: sir Jamie Lannister is Tywin’s son and heir, the most fearsome swordsman in the seven Kingdoms. Nobody can actually _make_ him do anything. Fail all else, sir Jamie could just run away and live by his sword anywhere in the world, because anywhere in the world people would kill each other and there would be no shortage of work for a warrior. Myrcella on the other hand, has no such valuable attributes. She is but a girl with good breeding and a once pretty face who yields no power but her wit. A single knight could knock her out and the next day she would be exactly where her grandfather told her to be.

“I heard Robb Stark is married - to a Frey girl.” Myrcella said with numb lips.

“She died of fever shortly after the birth and the child was a girl so he still needs an heir. You have bled, have you not?”

Myrcella bristles. Her mother’s hiss of contained rage is loud in her ears as are her brother’s eyes on her face.

“I have.” Myrcella says and this time her voice is steadier.

“And you are a maid still, I should hope.”

Myrcella’s eyes snap at her grandfather, nothing but contempt rolling in her gut. Instead she smiles at him, with just a little twist at one corner of her lips, and she knows whom she resembles most, right then.

“Does it matter?”

Her grandfather’s eyebrow twitches at her impertinence, but he gives no other reaction.

“I suppose it doesn’t.” He admits, sounding rather bored. “Though you might be the worse for it, since northerners have a keen sense of honour, I am told.”

Myrcella scoffs and reaches for her glass, sipping the clear water in a manner that would really have made her mother proud if she were not so busy scowling at uncle Tyrion.

“He will have to swallow his honour long enough to wed Cersei Lannister’s daughter.” Myrcella points out, as if it’s a secret jape. “My not bleeding in the sheets for him will be the least of his issues.”

Her grandfather’s hand landing hard against the wood of the table draws the attention of all those in the room. Myrcella startles, but does not turn away from her plate, though she knows it is at _her_ that Tywin is directing his anger.

His anger…  She has made her grandfather _angry_. That is more of a accomplishment that many more capable men can boast.

_Small victories_ , she thinks snidely.

“Has the sun of Dorne softened your brains? You are a Princess of the Iron Throne.” her grandfather’s voice vibrates with command, but Myrcella can’t find it in her to be affected. There is nothing more in her left to take. What can he possibly do to her that had not been done before?

“Am I? Many have wondered.”

“What? I want their names! I’ll cut out their tongues!” Joffrey starts, immediately on his feet.

Keeping from rolling her eyes was all Myrcella could do at his outburst. Gods, he’s dull… From the corner of her eyes, she sees her grandfather lift his hand and Joffrey falls silent.

_Neat trick_ , she thinks to herself, oddly dethatched. She knows she is pushing it, and the flash of warning in her uncle’s eyes tells her so.

“Listen well, girl.” her grandfather said flatly, much too controlled and subdued to be natural. “I have no patience for fools. You will do as you’re bid.”

“Of course I will.” The dryness in her tone could have scrapped paint off the walls. “I am a princess of the Iron Throne.”

There is nothing in her tone that hints at ridicule, but the truth is a silent beast in the room. That very simple truth they all know on some level: that Myrcella is as much a Baratheon as she is a Targaryen. A simple truth that turns her words to mockery, even when delivered with a perfectly straight face.

The silence that reigns is harsh enough to scrap at one’s eardrums, but Myrcella doesn’t feel it. Inside her head, all is roaring, like an ocean in a storm.

And then it occurs to her…

“Have you told him that I am disfigured? Or am I going to have to suffer the humiliation of going to him and being rejected?”

Because being ridiculed is a given. That she does not even need to ask.

When no answer comes, she tries a different angle.

“He may take it as a slight you know, that you are offering him a mutilated girl for a bride. That is not bound to go well.”

She was discussing this with the incredible calm of the shell-shocked and she could tell by the new consideration in her grandfather’s eyes, that her cool head was on the verge of impressing upon him her existence. He’d never seemed to have taken note of it before, other than obviously being aware of the fact that she had a womb he could trade.

“Your mark does not make you any less beautiful, Myrcella.” uncle Tyrion said softly.

“Kind of you to say so uncle.” even though her voice was so utterly flat. “Regardless, has he been told or not?”

Her grandfather fixes his eyes on her, cold, so cold, more so than any wolf’s could be.

“He has.” Tywin Lannister says, purpose behind is eyes. “He has made no objection on the matter.”

“What does he care what your face looks like? He’ll fuck you like a dog and be done with you.” Joffrey’s sneer was cold and cruel. “I’ll ask him to bring me your head after you’ve whelped him an heir. I’m sure he’ll have no qualms about it.”

Myrcella doesn’t grace Joffrey with a single look. Her eyes are fixed on the Hand of the King.

_And what of the fact that I’m a bastard born of incest? Does_ that _not bother him either? Or am I just going to my death pretending to be a bride?_

How she wants to ask him that, how she wants to say it to their faces, just once, aloud. But she is smarter than that, and more than anything else, she is a survivor… and that is the first moment since this dinner started that she remembers that her uncle (or was it _father?)_ is still in captivity somewhere out there, in Robb Stark’s encampment.

“May I be excused?” Myrcella says to nobody in particular. Both her mother and her brother respond with a sound ‘no’. It is her grandfather’s wave of dismissal that she follows.

“Sansa, care to join me for a walk? I feel some fresh air might do me good after such excitement.”

It is only when they are in Myrcella’s chambers that she finally turns to look at the other girl. There are tears on those ivory cheeks.

She leaves the other girl to her privacy and falls into her own thoughts. She would be exchanged for peace and that was all good and well, but she would be hated and she would be hurt - there was no doubt about that in her mind. She even wonders if she should protest a little more, if she should raise a fuss. She already knows it would amount to nothing.

Besides, Myrcella des not want to draw even more attention to herself than she already had. If there is one lesson on survival she has learned, is that you live longer if you’re as soft as the wind.

+

In the depth of night, Myrcella expected the pressure in her chest to melt down to tears, same as it had when she had left for Dorne, but it did not. She felt strangely resigned to her fate.

Perhaps it was because Sansa had been sleeping there, ( _and with good reason too - Joffrey had gone on a rampage after dinner, and looked for her everywhere_.) it was when she sighed for the uptenth time that she felt Sansa’s light touch on her forearm and the redhead spoke for the first time since they had reached Myrcella’s quarters hours ago.

“I know what you’re thinking. But you don’t have to worry about Robb hurting you.” Sansa finally said, a soft whisper in the night that barely disturbed the silence. Though Myrcella could not see her face, the girl’s eyes gleamed in the semidarkness, much like the wolf that was her house’s sigil. It made Myrcella uneasy.

_You’re being silly, Myr…_

“He is not that kind of man, your grace, he never has been.”

Myrcella sighed heavily in the dark.

“Oh Sansa… before I saw it with my own eyes, I could have sworn the same thing about Joffrey.” A cold sneer twisted her lips, and Myrcella knew who she looked like in that moment. “Sounds so silly now, doesn’t it, but it’s true. I could have said with a light heart that he had a temper and a vindictive streak in him, but that he would never take such insipid pleasure in cruelty.”

And it was the truth, she would have. She had been stupid child, blind. …Never had it crossed her mind that maybe she simply had not been afraid of her brother then, not even when he tried to frighten her because she had not yet know the true face of cruelty.

“Brothers are strange creatures Sansa. And you haven’t seen yours in years.”

And to that Sansa didn’t reply. Because she knew as well as Myrcella did that Robb Stark had spent a good part of those years butchering men in battle. Who knew what kind of tastes he had acquired since his sweet sister last saw him. Myrcella shivered at the thought. Sansa didn’t move her hand from her forearm though,. She was grateful for the comfort, but it did not ease her. She did not sleep a wink that night.

 

[1] Game of Thrones reference.                                                                                                             


	2. Blood of Winter

 

> _'Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get - a cold sick feeling, deep down inside - when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know that there will now be a ‘before’ and an ‘after’, a ‘was’ and a ‘will be’. And that you will never be the same person you were, ever again.”_
> 
> _\- Jennifer Donnelly, A Northern Light –_

The King of the North and the Trident wanted his sister by his side _sooner_ than as soon as possible – or so her uncle Tyrion said. Tywin Lannister had no objections on that, since it meant quicker evacuation of northerners from the westerlands and a faster celebration of the marriage that was supposed to unite their houses. Though Myrcella suspected he couldn’t be too happy with the way things had turned out. She knew her grandfather’s wish had been to keep Sansa under their claws and manes - as assurance, so to speak. Maybe even marry her to uncle Jamie, once the old man found a way to free him from his Kingsguard vows.

But that chance had come and gone, because if they dared, Robb Stark would fuck the westerlands to the seven hells, as uncle Tyrion had so tactfully put it.

It took them a fortnight to finalize the details for the marriage contract and another to make everything ready for the journey ( _Myrcella had never seen Sansa smiled so much so frequently_ ). When Myrcella looked at the wagons that contained her belongings, she thought it strange how a whole life could fit in such a small space.

There was one detail that she wanted to know however, but that she had to be prudent about asking. She chose to ask uncle Tyrion instead of anyone else that would not answer.

“Is he going to support Joffrey’s claim to the throne against Stannis?”

Uncle Tyrion had given her a small smile.

“No. But he won’t fight _with_ Stannis either. He maintains that wars of succession in the south are none of his concern and that he is King in the North. What Joffrey does or does not with his realm is none of the northerners business and frankly, we like it that way.”

Of course they did. King’s Landing could withstand the attack on one army, but not two, especially not with the westerlands being bled dry and all the supply routes being cut off. Add to that the ever present danger of Dorne setting Highgarden on fire, as the Tyrells had been screaming about these last few months, and you had a ‘ _true tactical headfuck on your hands_.’

“He’s just hoping Stannis comes and burns us all to bones isn’t he?” She mumbled, lost in thought.

“Ah, but not you.” Her uncle said, surprising her with the clear intent behind those words, as if as if he had been thinking them a long time. “Not _you_ , because you will soon be  a Stark of Winterfell, sweet girl.”

_Sweet girl…_

Myrcella was as much a sweet girl now as Uncle Tyrion was eight feet tall – that was what made calling her that so funny. But there was no humour in her uncle’s eyes now. Only the warmth of affection.

“You will have a good life up in the North I think.” He said slowly. “At the very least, a life far away from here.”

Myrcella wanted to ask if he was being purposefully slow, but she thinks it useless. Of course he was not. He knew all too well what a life lived in scorn was like.

“They’ll hate me, you know they will. I’ll be just as scorned as Sansa was here.”

Tyrion nodded. “Perhaps, at first. But you won’t be harmed. The Starks are much better than we are in that respect – and Robb Stark is not Joffrey. You will be safe. Safer than here, at least.”

Myrcella felt her breath calcifying in her lungs. She couldn’t object to that: there were few places less safe than the Red keep some days… and that reminded her of another important thing that, try as she might, she could not seem to imprint on her mother’s head hard enough.

“Uncle… You must promise me something.” And she caught his hand, small but strong, in her own. “You must promise that you will protect Tommen with everything you can. You’ve seen how Joffrey is with him.” _and with me_ … but that she doesn’t say. By the look in his eyes, he probably already knows anyway. “You must protect him, because nobody else will.”

“You know I will do all I can, sweet girl.” Uncle Tyrion said calmly.

Myrcella nods. “I have tried to tell mother, but she…”

That had been a true dead end. Cersei Lannister was half blind when it came to her golden son. Myrcella would rather think her mother that, rather than consider the possibility that maybe Cersei Lannister did not find half the things Joffrey did so offensive. But Myrcella had always thought that the queen loved no one as she did her children… she’d always thought…

“When Jamie comes back, he’ll be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” Uncle Tyrion reassures her. “He’ll take care that Tommen is protected by someone that can be trusted. And when the siege comes… I will do my best.”

That should ease her. She could not ask for more. More would be impossible.  And yet she was happier worrying about Tommen than even spending a single moment thinking of her own fate.

Whenever she thought of it, she felt an immense sense of dread, and those few enough times she had voiced it ( _two in total – to Sansa that night, and to uncle Tyrion just now_ ), those that wished to comfort her kept telling her that Robb Stark was not her brother, as if that was supposed to mean something. That was a lot of faith to put on one man. She could not in good faith say that she had ever in her life met a man deserving of such trust. Thos who were more admired than most had, in her experience, turned out to be simply better liars than others. And Kings had a general tendency to be the worst of men.

x

Her mother had not come to see her off. She had come the night before, to hold her in a bruising embrace and whisper, for the first time since Myrcella came back from Dorne, of how much she was loved. To be strong and to remember who she was: a lion and _‘it’s for lower beasts to fear you. Don’t forget, never forget who you are.’_  Myrcella had held her mother just as tightly and bitten her tongue this one last time, because in the end she truly was her mother’s daughter and she could not help the love she bore this unreachable woman who had birthed her. A love that endured beyond the flaws they both had, despite the temper and hardness and grave mistakes.

Tommen was harder to say goodbye to. They spent their last days together and he was always holding her hand, looking at her as if she might vanish under his eyes. It occurred to Myrcella one day, how lonely her brother must have been all this time. Lonelier than she ever had been in Dorne, for Myrcella at least had created her own life there, somehow. But Tommen had been so isolated… And he had not even had time to take joy in his sister being back, before she was ripped from him again.

He cried on the last day they spent together, even though he was considered by all too old for such a show of emotion. Myrcella loved him fiercer for it, held him tight and kissed his tears away, promising that she would do all in her power to come see him again, and that was no lie.

Not surprisingly, it was uncle Tyrion that was going to be their royal escort. At some point Joffrey had had the dazzling idea of coming himself… and when she’d heard, Myrcella had laughed, though perhaps she should have cried. Who was going to hold the Mad King’s muzzle when her grandfather died? Perhaps someone should do all seven kingdoms a favour and just poison him…

But those worries disappeared from her mind soon enough. Let those who made him deal with Joffrey. Myrcella would have her own troubles to worry her mind over all too soon.[[A.A1]](http://neverland300690.tumblr.com/post/144528552523/2-blood-of-winter-i#_msocom_1) 

x

Almost six years ago, when they had been riding towards Winterfell, Myrcella had heard Renly Baratheon say that the Stark family words were the only ones not to pay tribute to the family itself. That their words reminded everyone of the beginning of the Starks out of the Long Night, and the grim importance of things to come for all men.

As the harsh wind slapped their faces silly, numbing her cheeks and freezing her nose with cold as they rode through the western planes, Myrcella _felt_ the truth of those old family words. Tyrion cursed beside her. He looked thoroughly annoyed, as if the wind existed just to bother him, but he did wink at her from underneath his hood.

“Winter is coming huh?“ Myrcella said gritting her teeth against a shiver. Sansa smiled at her widely, making it impossible not to smile back. Myrcella tried to pick up what good humour she had left.

"Tell me, dear soon-to-be goodsister, what does your family say when winter finally _gets_ here?”

Sansa laughed. “We say ‘ _we told you so_ '”

Myrcella laughed too, for the first time in nearly a month.

x

She looked at herself in the stained mirror of her room. The Crossroads Inn was not the same as it used to be, but the room she was sleeping in with Sansa was warm and the bed was as close to comfortable as it could get. Myrcella would not complain. She’d slept in worse places.

This was the last day of their travel. Not even half a day really, they had already been sighted by northern scouts. So Myrcella undid her braid, combed her fingers through her curls, pulled all her hair over the left side of her face and braided it again, carefully making sure that her mutilated ear would be well covered. She had no wish to hide the scar on her cheek. It would be futile, one would have to be blind to miss it, but her ear… no, that one she wanted to hide.

She was not ashamed of it. She was not ashamed of any of her scars. Someone had tried to kill her and she’d survived. There was no shame in that.

But people had rarely spared her their ignorance.  

She met her own eyes in the mirror critically, making a very careful study of her every feature. High cheekbones, round mouth. Gold in her hair, forest green in her eyes. A Lannister, twice. That more than anything was the inescapable truth of her heritage. With a finger, she traced the scar that ran from cheekbone all the way to her mangled ear. Her hair hid where it had cut even further, to the side of her head. That too was a mark that would never go away.

Myrcella had lost her vanity when she started to understand the price of beauty, as well as its eases. Everyone had always said that she was her mother’s image come again and her mother was hailed as the most beautiful woman in the realm. As for herself, Myrcella liked her own face for the very simple reason that it was the one that had greeted her every morning in a mirror for the full seven and ten years of her life. That scar on her cheek was just another piece of her own history, and while in Dorne she had never been made to care of the aesthetics of it. Obara was riddled with scars, Nymeria too, even Tyene had them and they were all proud of them, telling their stories to whoever listened.

But up here things were different. People were different. In the rest of Westeros, there could be no creature considered more unlucky and an ugly woman.

Myrcella sighed deeply, feeling worn thin. How she wished to be back and spend the rest of her days under the hot sun of Dorne. Instead, she was going to become Queen of Winter.

Not for the first time, uncle Tyrion’s voice found its way into her head: _the gods are such vicious cunts_ , he whispered. But then again Myrcella had stopped praying to the seven the day Trystane died, so she had no grounds to complain.

x

Myrcella’s eye caught the white and grey standard of the direwolf flapping in the wind and she knew who it was that was riding towards them at full gallop some few men riding behind him at a slower pace. Robb Stark stopped his horse with a quick move and jumped down from it before the beast had yet found its peace. He plucked Sansa from the saddle before she had the chance to get down herself.

It was a strange thing to hear Sansa sobbing in his arms with such white-hot desperation. She was always so quiet, so still. Always afraid of drawing eyes on herself. And yet, though Sansa was a woman grown – and had had looked it for years - she seemed a small child when her brother picked her up so she could wrap her arms around his neck, because there was no chance of her ever reaching all around him in full armour as he was.

Robb Stark was a head taller than his sister and looked twice her size - and as she took that in, Myrcella felt her heart in her throat, immediately calculating in her mind how much a of a weight advantage he had on her. She noticed his wide palms as they held his sisters face and wiped her tears away, all Myrcella could think of was how much it would hurt if he did strike her.

 _‘Learn to like the pain’_ Obara used to say, right after one of her blows had doubled Myrcella over. _‘It means you’re still alive.’_

But right now the eldest Sand Snake was a distant memory, and the man standing in that clearing so tall and broad and imposing, was a stranger.

Robb Stark was not the striking young man Myrcella remembered from Winterfell a lifetime ago. There was nothing of that boy left in him except for the color of his hair, so uniquely trapped between the Tully red of his sister and the Stark’s darkest brown. She swung down from the saddle and lowered the hood of her cloak, so that she could greet him with her feet on the ground and her face in plain view. Even his eyes were not the same. They were still the bluest she had ever seen, but …so cold, so _hard,_ that they made her shiver, like a gust of winter wind.

Those eyes fixed upon her then, cool and steady.

Myrcella curtsied low, as one should only for a King, greeting with a clearly spoken _‘Your grace’_ , and stayed that way until he acknowledged her with a flat ‘ _princess’_.

“King in the North!” Her uncle called from the horse he had not dismounted, his usual smirk twisting his lips. “We meet again.”

Myrcella almost flinched at her uncle’s tone, but as Tyrion always said, being the Imp had certain advantages. Forgoing manners seemed to be the most recurrent one, apparently.

“Aye, we do.” Robb Stark said, gesturing to the riders behind him.

One single horse was sent forward, and had it not been for those wide eyes of a green so bright, it looked like summer grass, Myrcella would not have recognized her uncle at all. He wore his armour ill and his hair was a mane, his beard longer than she had ever seen it. When he finally did see her, his eyes flashed with recognition and shock slackened his face.

He paled as if he was looking at a ghost, eyes peeled so wide she could see the whites of them surrounding the green of his irises.

And for someone who had resented him so long from a distance, oh how sorry did she feel for him then…

“When are we to expect the wedding, your grace?” Uncle Tyrion asked

Myrcella had eyes only for Jamie, the white knight, that looked scandalized enough that he was chewing on his tongue for the effort of not speaking.

The King’s eyes flickered to her for a moment before he turned to her uncle.

“Ravens will be sent to you when I cross the Neck.” The King replied. “The ceremony will be performed as soon as we arrive in Winterfell.”

“Then perhaps it would save time if I join you now.” Her uncle tried, but he had not even finished his words before the firmest ‘ _No_ ’ Myrcella had ever heard came from Robb Starks lips. A single word spoken with the severity of a man that knew his own mind and that knew he did not need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

It was the kind of ‘no’ her grandfather was a master in delivering. A King’s order.

She saw her uncle was meaning to speak again then, saw the King urge his sister towards her horse once more as his riders spread out into formation again and she felt time slipping through her fingers. Myrcella was afraid, she was not ashamed of it. These moments were possibly the ones that were going to determine the rest of her life, but she could not… she could _not_ go without…

“Your grace!” She called as clearly as she dared and was grateful for when the King’s eyes found hers immediately, his brows only slightly furrowing.

“May I say goodbye?”

The King blinked once, as if it had not even occurred to him that she might want to, and then, so fast that she thought she had imagined it through the sheer force of will to see it there, something seemed to soften in his eyes. But it was gone so fast that Myrcella was left feeling afraid that she had overstepped the line already and that she would feel the brunt of it later.

But it didn’t matter. Who knew if she would even see her uncles again? Who knew if she would even be alive long enough for a wedding. Life was ever harsh and never merciful. Anything could happen.

“Of course, Princess.” The King said and he urged his riders at some distance.

She felt uncle Jamie land to his feet almost before she turned to see him there in front of her. There was such anger in his eyes… but she could not help but take his hands and hold them, could not help the smile.  She’d missed him. She knew it clearly as soon as she saw him. She knew she needed no father and never would but she had missed her uncle. She made herself think of the fond times she’d had with him, not wanting their last words to be spoken in anger. Anger didn’t matter here, it wouldn’t make anything better.

It was a small wonder however,  to see how quickly Jamie Lannister’s temper faded the moment she took his hand, how suddenly there was longing in his face and how clearly she saw it, even though his beard and messy hair covered most of his expression.

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” He said finally and Myrcella smiled at him, because he was trying so hard to make her think he was unchanged by his captivity. He must remember her as the little girl that parted from King’s Landing years ago, if what he wanted was to protect her still.

“You shouldn’t be.” She said then with a smile. Such little time for them, in the end. “I missed you, and I’ll continue to miss you, even though you look awful,” and that got a laugh out of him. “-I’ll write as often as I can.” _If I can…_ “And you must write to me, _both_ of you. Make sure Tommy has time to, as well.” She said turning to uncle Tyrion. “-because nobody else will.”

“We’ll write, sweet girl.” Uncle Tyrion said softly.

“Whose head am I to have for _this_?” uncle Jamie finally found the nerve to ask, his thumb tracing the line of her scar. His voice was so soft that she wondered, for one small moment, how it might have been like to have this man love her as a daughter.

She imagines it would have been awful. Neither of the Lannister Twins had been fashioned for soft love.

“That dept has been paid.” She said firmly, thinking about the Darkstar’s corpse rotting in the desert. “Uncle Tyrion will explain. Will they let you be at my wedding?”

And now she had tears in her eyes and in her voice. She felt so stupid, like a child.

Uncle Jamie snorted, as if the answer was obvious, even though his eyes too were shining. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Myrcella rolled her eyes with a half smile.

“If mother tries to send me a red gown, _stop_ her.”

Another smile from Jamie Lannister, crocked and knowing. Familiar. She reached up to tug his head down so she could kiss his forehead the way he used to, so rarely, when she used to be a child. He was not a giant anymore; or rather, she was much taller now. The world was not quite so big, though she was just as small in it. She took her uncle Tyrion’s hand and kissed it too, holding it tightly before letting go (‘ _Don’t forget your promise_ ),

And then she was on her horse and galloping forward. Not once did she look back. Neither one of her uncles expected her to.

x

Myrcella watched from afar as Lady Stark held Sansa in her arms for moments so long that it seemed the woman would never let go. A lanky girl with a dark braid and fierce eyes was standing close by them. The girl that Myrcella had thought looked awkward as a child, now looked dangerous as a woman. Arya Stark was not in a dress, but in boiled leathers, with a thin sword strapped of her hip, a bow and a quiver full of arrows on her back. Her eyes singed like hot steel when they fell on Myrcella’s face. Arya had the kind of beauty swords did: cold and sharp enough to cut if one dared crush a hand against it.

Myrcella recognized the kind of violence the girl regarded her with. she’d faced that kind of reckless hate before, it didn’t frighten her anymore. Or rather, it did, but she was better prepared to control that fear now.

No matter what feelings Myrcella’s face invoked in her though, Arya Stark still embraced her sister tightly when Sansa practically threw herself at her with a strangled cry of ‘ _Oh gods, I thought you were dead!_ ’ over and over.

The King stayed with his family for a moment more before turning towards Myrcella. Unlike his little sister, there was no immediate dislike in his expression, but then again, Myrcella could not see anything else in it either. She could not read his face and there seemed to be nothing beneath the frosty-flue of his eyes, no flicker of emotion to guide her reaction.

For a moment she tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a whole lifetime with a man that felt nothing but disdain for her, or at best, cold disregard… _‘I don’t belong here’_ was too little a phase to encompass the enormity of the displacement Myrcella felt in that moment.

“Princess, I have had a tent set up for you and my sister. I advise you get some hours worth of rest, we’ll be marching as soon as we’re able.”

He spoke looking at her with the unnerving steadiness of a stranger.

Myrcella thanked the King, and tried not to think of how his mouth looked like one that never smiled or how the shape of his jaw hinted at more than just stubbornness. She did her honest best not to dwell on the memory of Trystane, who had been warmth and laughter and kindness.

Her best was not enough. She still felt the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes.

But Myrcella was not alarmed. She knew she would not cry. She had no cried in a long time.

The Starks escorted her to her tent and then left her to settle. As her sleeping place was readied, Myrcella dared a look around, taking in the many faces of men of war.

Some stared at her openly, their disdain as flat and direct as Arya Stark’s had been. Some even looked upon her with a plain and simple hatred. No big surprise, that, she had expected it, but it was different to be surrounded by some one hundred men that wanted nothing better than to wet the cold ground with her blood. Myrcella sighed. If it were not for their paler skin and colder, then she might as well be back in Dorne. Except now she was old enough to understand what those stares meant.

It did not escape her that the King paid her the least attention possible within the bounds of strict cordiality. In her heart of hearts, she could not blame him. He was to marry the daughter of the most reviled queen in the history of Westeros. The sister of the boy-King that had cut off his father’s head… A girl that had everyone said had her mother’s face. More than anything, to him Myrcella must be a taunt in the face of all he had lost… and as she thought of it that way, she could easily imagine her grandfather sitting somewhere in a chair, smiling at the thought of her becoming her mother’s daughter in every way and making Robb Stark’s life a living hell, just as Rober Baratheon and her mother had done to each other.

No, Myrcella did not blame the King at all, but she had herself to think about. Nobody else was going to see to her comfort, she could not afford to waste her concern on a King who could not stand to look at her too long.

That was precisely the moment when Sansa chose to turn the corner of the tent with a tearful smile. To Myrcella’s great surprise ( _so much so that she actually showed it_ ) the elder Princess of the North took her hand and tugged her to her remaining family.

"Mother, Arya… allow me to present princess Myrcella to you.” She said with enthusiasm in her voice that to Myrcella was completely foreign.

Two pair of eyes fixed on her and Myrcella felt the hair on her arms prickle. But Sansa was not done. Indeed, she had not even let go of Myrcella’s hand.

“She was of great comfort to me when I was held in the Red Keep.” Sansa continued, smiling at Myrcella’s so obvious shock at her words. Myrcella was sure Sansa knew exactly what she was doing… and she was doing it anyway. She had never been a true friend to anyone before, and yet she was being shown the meaning of it now, by the same girl that her family had tortured slowly for years.

Shame prickled at the back of her spine.

“You’re too kind, your grace.” Myrcella said softly, meaning it, in a tone meant only for Sansa and nobody else.

“I thought that the Princess had been fostered in Dorne since she was a child and that she was returned some eight months ago.” Lady Catelyn pointed out, her tone as polite as her eyes brimmed disdain.

 _And so it begins_ , Myrcella thought as she met the other woman eye to eye.

“Your grace is correct. As I said, princess Sansa was being generous.”

Myrcella held herself poised beneath Catelyn Stark’s assessing gaze. The blankness of good manners was harder to break apart than weakness or pride, so Myrcella tried to show neither.

“How’d you get that scar?” Arya’s asked. Arya Stark’s nonchalance didn’t surprise Myrcella one bit though - the defiance was in the girls very breath, but apparently, she was the only one.

“ _Arya_!” her mother and Sansa chastised immediately, their tone of voice so similar that it was a wonder. The three women looked at each other for a moment and then, in the same moment, they started laughing at some secret jest between them that Myrcella was utterly out of.

“Some things never change do they?” Sansa said, as if it was the most wonderful thing on earth.

Lady Catelyn sighed turning to Myrcella with a look on her face that might have been called resigned. “Come then. Let’s get you into some warmer clothes. You both looked chilled.”

Sansa smiled at her and Myrcella tried to smile back, but she was sure her expression was not so convincing. Arya Stark kept a pace behind her, eying her back like it was her target, no doubt, countless eyes following their walk… and that was when Myrcella understood how her life in the north was going to be like even ten years from now. Even if she did manage to be not-so-hated, she would forever be the outsider, never their kin.

She would be ever lonely here.

The sudden realization of this very simple truth hit Myrcella with the strength of a blow and she felt the blood drain from her face. She had never been truly alone in her life… she was afraid of it.

 

ii.

 

> _For all the universes there are,_  
>  this one was not enough,  
>  not for now, not for us.
> 
> _Somewhere in another, though.  
>  We are softer, we are kinder.  
>  To our skin, to each other_.
> 
> _-[IN THAT THERE THAT ISN’T HERE, I ALLOW MYSELF TO LOVE YOU](http://lostcap.tumblr.com/post/137251419173/for-all-the-universes-there-are-this-one-was-not) |_
> 
> [ _P.D_ ](http://lostcap.tumblr.com/)

When Myrcella found herself looking upon the northern camp, the suddenness of her reaction betrayed her feelings in a moment where they should not have. But being still and calm in a middle of a sea of men… she could not see the end of the northern army and it made her taste fear for the very first time.

 _How_ _many_ _of them were there_?

She looked over, searching for banners, wanting to know who they were, but the colon was moving so fast, straight into the heart of the camp and she did not have the time to take it all in. They were families of the north, Stark bannermen and there were others as well. Riverlords perhaps. She caught the standard of the Twins somewhere, and even the sun and spear of Dorne.

"We could have burned it all to the ground, you know."

Myrcella turned to meet Arya Stark's cold-steel eyes… and felt something in her respond to the strength with which she was being hated in that moment. Her insides pulled together, tense, as they always did when she was coiling for a fight.

Obara used to say that one must always fight like the next breath one takes would be the last, because it very well might be. But Obara had always been too vengeful, too violent, too blunt. This girl to whom Myrcella was talking to now was just a girl who hated her face - and she was the sister of the man she was to marry.

So Myrcella kept her expression cool and flat.

"We could have burned Lannisport to the ground, taken the Rock and razed it down."

"Then I am glad the King chose to show mercy on the people of the westerlands."

Arya Stark snorted. "T'was no mercy, _Lannister_." A name spit out with so much vile it was already an insult. "It was tactics. Just like you are."

Myrcella calculated the many responses she could give, before settling for the only one that Arya Stark was likely to understand.

"I know." She said, without disdain or anything else. A simple fact for both of them to acknowledge.

It was not enough.

"I'm going to kill your brother one day."

The voice was close and not low enough to be considered a whisper. Arya Stark obviously didn't care about such things. Myrcella could only stare at the wolf girl in a mix of wonder and amusement, unable to decide which was stronger in her.

"I'm going to kill your mother too. I swore it. And I'll do it." Arya Stark continued.

Myrcella did not doubt it for a moment that Arya was capable of bringing death. She sounded like killers Myrcella had met before sounded, but what she spoke of was… was so _commonplace_.

How many men and women, Myrcella wondered, had sworn the same thing, over and over again? She was sure there had to be an abundance of them, somewhere in this world or ( _more probably_ ) in the next. Men and women whose lives the Lannister Queen had ruined, had sworn to kill her in innumerable ways… and yet there she stood, upon her throne.

And where were those people now?

"You will have quite a bit of competition there, I'm afraid, but I wish you well on your endeavours all the same. May you act wisely and may justice guide your hand." Myrcella said steadily. She kept her amusement to herself.

Making Arya Stark think she was pretending to be a lady was far less trouble than making her think she was being mocked

"Justice, yes. For my father and my brother. For my sister too…" There was a moment of silence, and Arya snorted. " _Lannisters_. You people don't love anyone but yourselves do you?"

Myrcella felt the spark of annoyance for the first time since the girl had started to speak. She met her eyes, not fire for fire, but blood-lust with cool indifference, because she knew Arya Stark's kind – or at least, she knew the kind of hatred Arya felt. She had learned long since how to deal with it.

"Perhaps. But if you think this is the first time someone threatens to kill my brother or mother, you are more naïve than I thought you to be, princess." Myrcella countered calmly, placidly almost.

The fury in Arya's eyes made her peel back those lips and show teeth like a wolf showed fangs. "Don't you call me that! I'm no _princess_!"

Myrcella inclined her head. "As you wish."

Sansa's voice interrupted them. "Arya, stop it, you're causing a scene."

As Sansa linked their arms together with a smile and pulled her to their tents, Myrcella thought back at Arya Starks snarling face. At least the girl was honest about her feelings; it could have been worse. This kind of anger Myrcella could handle. Unless of course the girl decided to shoot her full of arrows or cut her throat in her sleep.

Myrcella closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She honestly hoped that Arya Stark had a bit more sense than that. A bit more sense than Joffrey, who went and cut off Ned Stark's head and plunged the kingdoms into war and devastation. Because that's what would happen again if Myrcella made the mistake of getting herself killed here. Which was what made dying an even more unacceptable option, and Arya Stark would have to learn to live with that.

x

Myrcella slept fitfully and when she woke she felt her bones aching, as if she had been crushed under her bedclothes.

Sansa, her mother and Arya too, were still sleeping. Watching them, she felt the bite of sadness in her breast. They were cocooned together, holding each other in their sleep, as she and Tommen used when they were children.

 _These people_ , Myrcella thought, _were not bad people, were they_? They were just family… a powerful family, yes, but family none the less.

But then again, she should know better by now. She should know that blood does not guarantee love. The Lannisters were family and yet they all _hate_ each other on one level or another…

What would it be like for her with these people up in the frozen north? What would it be like for her children? Would the children of her body be as loved as Sansa Stark seemed to be? Myrcella felt her hands close into fists and the spark of anger. She would not let anyone harm any child that came from her, of that she was certain.

And then of course she realized she was being stupid and thinking far too much ahead. Before she planned the future of her offsprings, she should perhaps try to have a full conversation with their would-be father.

With a sigh, Myrcella decided the day had to start sooner rather than later. She got up and dressed herself with as much quiet as she could. The heavy woollen dresses she’d had bad to bear the northern cold her, luckily, simple enough to put on even without a handmaiden to help. Which was all the better for her, because in her as her fingers laced up the front of her dress, her mind went back for the hundredth time, to the episode of last night.

She had waited for the camp to calm before she snuck out of her tent and, with the heavy box of polished dark wood in her arms, headed for the King’s tent. She had not actively tried to hide from sight, but she had not wanted to be conspicuous either. She had been so afraid, even though her step was sure and her mind had been made.

The guards had stopped her at the entrance of the royal tent.

“How may we be of assistance, your grace?” one of them asked, and it was so clear that he’d rather call her ‘bastard’ than anything else, that Myrcella was tempted to smile at his transparency. But she was no idiot.

“I would have a word with the King.” she said carefully, taking the decision out of his hands.

“The King has retired for the night.”

As if she did not know that. “I assure you, he will want to hear me. …I have something to deliver to him.”

“With all due respect, your grace, gifts can wait till morning.” The other guard said gruffly, eying her with cold disdain.

They were sons of great houses, the both of them. They would never dare be so familiar if that wasn’t the case, Lannister or not.

Or perhaps the northerners escaped definition even more than she’d thought. It didn’t matter.

“It’s not a gift, sir. And I think the king would like to decide for himself.” Myrcella said and this time she could not keep the steel from her voice as hard as she tried.

Her tone made them both rethink themselves. They regarded her carefully, took in what she was carrying in her arms. No doubt they thought perhaps she was there to kill their King or something as preposterously stupid as that. She was a Lannister after all, nothing could be beneath her. But in the end the truth of it was that a guard, even a royal one, could not take decisions that the King would better like to have taken himself, and for all these soldiers knew, the King could not afford to offend her too tremendously, since she was the one link to the stability of their realms. The reality of it was different, but Myrcella would not be the one to explain that to any of them.

A moment later, the soldier returned and the tent flap was held open for her to go in… and in she went.

The King’s tent was much wider than that of his mother’s and sisters’, and curtains separated his private area from that that served as general quarters of his army, where he held meetings with his generals and captains. It seemed as warm as any tent could be, clean and fit a commander. But it was also bare of anything that was not strictly needed - and that told her much about the character of the man inhabiting it.

Myrcella ran her eyes around herself, looking for the King and when she found him standing almost behind her, she swallowed down the lump in her throat and curtsied.

“Your grace.”

A moment passed.

“Princess.”

She stood up straight and looked at him. ‘ _He is not going to ask you what you want here.’_ , she thought as she took in his expressionless face, features so tense that it seemed as if their grim expression was set in stone. Thank the gods, or whatever had had mercy on her fate, he was not as big as he had looked with his armour on, though he was still a full head taller than her and his shoulders were still wide enough to mean strength.

Myrcella stepped forward and put the box she had been carrying on the table where all his maps were. Her arms had been aching from the weight of it.

“I was meant to return this to you.” Myrcella said, trying to resist the urge to look anywhere but in his eyes, no matter how unforgiving his gaze as he tried to drill through her thoughts. But she firmly believed that deference was one thing, while weakness was another. She would not lower her eyes to him.

Myrcella lifted the top of the dark wooden box. And it was only then, when he saw what she had brought him, that the King of the North proved he was not made of ice and stone after all. Robb Stark was still in this king, somewhere, and he was still able to feel something – _anything_ – that was not mistrust or frosty disdain. He probably would never fully trust her, but Myrcella was nothing if not determined. She was willing to step towards her, she would meet him in the middle, anywhere that middle might be.

“You grandfather made it very clear that my father’s sword had been lost.” The King had said, and it was just as clear from his tone that he had not believed it for a moment. Myrcella had said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would be to her advantage there.

“Am I to consider this as his wedding gift to me?” and the tone had been even harsher, mocking the idea for its presumptuousness.

“No one can present as a gift something that already belongs to you, your grace.” She said calmly, though she betrayed herself when she looked down to her feet at his words - because _that_ had been precisely her grandfather’s intent.

At first he had had no intention of returning the sword at all, but somehow ( _only the gods knew how_ ) uncle Tyrion had convinced him to do it. But Tywin had wanted Myrcella to give that sword back to the King at their wedding feast, in front of all his bannermen so that all could see that _she_ was the one to return the lost heirloom where it belonged. That the North was a _concession,_ an allowance of the crown, and not a right earned in blood. Myrcella had thought the idea both unwise and unsafe.

She had been relieved when uncle Tyrion didn’t protest too much, when she told him her own idea, a few days ago.

Robb Stark stepped forward to pick up his father’s sword and it was all Myrcella could do not to flinch backwards. He took the thing out of its sheath in one fluid move, held it in his hands as if it weighted nothing more than a feather. She had never seen Ice this close before, never dared. Even in that moment, she chose to watch the King’s face instead of looking at the weapon. She chose make not of how the emotion seemed to melt the frost from his eyes, as his gaze turned inwards.

What was he thinking about, she wondered?

The King put the sword back into its scabbard and turned to her.

“Thank you.” He said simply, and Myrcella bowed her head to him, just as simply.

But he did not dismiss her, and since he outranked her, she could not simply turn her back to him without his permission. Just as well as she knew that if she stayed any longer there would be rumours flying in the morning of her being a whore, as well as a bastard.

“May I take my leave, your grace?”

Again, his dark brows pulled together by a small fraction, a thin line of confusion narrowing in his eyes, before he replied.

“You may, if you wish.”

Myrcella felt herself in a difficult situation all of a sudden. Was this a trap? Did he want her to stay?

She rebelled from the very core of herself at the thought. She may dread him, but she would not be made his whore, not without a fight. And he would be surprised at how much of a fight she was capable of.

“I fear it would be improper, your grace, to stay any longer in your tent without an chaperone.”

 _In the middle of the night…_ but she did not need to add that.

Myrcella watched understanding dawn in his eyes, as if the idea had not occurred to him at all. ( _And why should it? Men didn’t suffer from ill rumours as women did, and he did not care about her honour, because he probably thought she had none_.) But she did not see the annoyance she’d expected. He looked away from her for a moment, as if… well, if it had been anyone else, Myrcella would have thought him embarrassed, but this was the King of Winter and though Myrcella knew him for but a day, he had not struck her as a man to ever get embarrassed about anything.

“Of course.” He said then, nodding firmly. But after a moment he opened his mouth again, and closed it, looking… unsure. Myrcella would have liked nothing better than to leave his presence ( _her heart had been flying ever since she entered this tent and she could already feel the cold sweat start to bother her underneath her dress_ ) but she could not very well leave when it was obvious that the King had something to say.

“Are your accommodations to your liking?” he asked… and Myrcella blinked twice, as stunned to hear those words as he seemed to be to have said them.

Suddenly the awkwardness that had taken the place of the hard tension of a moment ago seemed ridiculous. He was just trying to be courteous, was he not? Wasn’t that expected?

Myrcella had to be honest with herself: no, it had not been expected, of course. She had expected a great deal of things, and none of them were of the pleasant kind. It was why she measured every look, every step, every _breath,_ in his presence. She had been steeling herself for awful things, telling herself _those_ were expected. Not this.

Some things that were considered normal, sounded extraordinary in their situation. Perhaps that was because their situation was extraordinary in itself, and therefore normal things did not fit comfortably between them. Myrcella had never expected the ordinary from this… and perhaps neither had he. But that did not mean she could not accept it graciously.

“I am very comfortable and warm, your grace. Thank you.” Myrcella said, a little too softly perhaps, trying to smile.

Sansa had made sure that she had the warmest clothes and the most comfortable bed as possible, in such a display of compassion that, had Myrcella not been built the way she was, she would have been reduced to tears.

One single gesture of kindness meant the world it seemed, when none was expected.

“I’m glad.” He said, the word sounding strange from his lips. “Goodnight then, princess.”

“Goodnight to you, your grace.”

And she left. She had hoped that the King understood what she had done, and why she had done it this way. Myrcella had taken a great risk on her person by presuming to know the best way of action and she could only hope that Robb Stark would be able to see this as a peace offering - not between their families, but between themselves… an offering of good will, if nothing else.

Myrcella looked back to the sleeping women inside the tent before she took a breath and thought herself ready to face the cold morning outside. She smiled at how harmless and how very young Arya Stark seemed in her sleep, how peaceful both Sansa and her mother looked. _Everyone was so much happier when they chose not to remember anything_ , she thought. She dismissed the thought with a shake of her head and stepped out of the tent silently. She was in a good mood today even though she he had slept fitfully, and she knew why that was.

Myrcella was no fool to give away all the measure of her trust for one polite word, but she felt hopeful. Even if the most she could achieve with the King was distant curtsey and politeness, it sounded magnificent, when compared to all the other things she had imagined. And even though this was just a faint hope, it was still better than nothing.

 

iii.

Unfortunately for Myrcella, her good mood evaporated immediately when she caught sight of the two soldiers dressed in Lannister armour, standing just outside her tent. She froze, her heart skipping a beat as she turned to look at them fully in the face, aware that whoever was awake and within sighting distance, was looking at her. She need not be a witch to know the kind of thoughts that were running through those heads.

“Who are you?” she asked, turning the soldiers with a frown, not bothering to hide her feelings.

“We are to be your guards, Princess.” One of them said and Myrcella felt her anger start to rise.

“By whose order are you to be my guards?”

It would have been a cruel joke indeed if the King had dressed them this way and ordered them to follow her about. At her question, the two men looked at each other and then back at her.

“King Joffrey and the Queen Regent, your grace.”

Myrcella clenched her teeth. She should have known, this had Joffrey written all over it. Or rather, his stupidity and brutal intent.

“And was it, by any chance, part King Joffrey’s order that you guard me while wearing this ridiculous getup?” She asked, as she pointed towards their armour. It was obvious from the look they shared that her brother had done precisely so, and Myrcella could not help but be a little sorry for them. It was not their fault that their King was the kind of moron to want to cause his sister harm even when she was a hundred miles away from him.

… or that her mother greatest flaw was her so absolute pride.

Myrcella sighed. “It’s no matter now. Go find yourselves a more appropriate armour, or I will find myself new guards.” She said simply, but firmly enough to let them know she meant every word, before turning to leave.

“Forgive me, your grace, but the King gave us an order and we cannot…”

Myrcella turned, eyes narrowing into slits.

“The only _King_ north of the Neck is Robb Stark, and you two are in the middle of his army.” She said sharply. “Ten thousand northerners who, at the sight of that pretty red armour, would like nothing better than to open you up from balls to brains and seeing how pretty you bleed. ”

She spoke harshly enough to have them straighten, even though she knew they were not so much at fault here. Myrcella took a breath and settled her tone into a smoother one.

“So unless you want to find yourselves victims of some unfortunate accident, find yourselves an armour more appropriate to your current situation.”

Both men bowed their heads and took their leave. Myrcella sighed. This was not going to be easy, and she had known that from the beginning, but she had not expected people where were not even there to make it quite so difficult either.

“Your grace, good morning.”

Myrcella turned at the voice and saw a woman standing there, dressed in full armour and looking at her with almond-shaped eyes.

“Good morning to you my lady.” Myrcella said, not knowing how else to address this stranger.

“My name is Dacey of house Mormont, your grace. The King would like a word.”

Myrcella nodded and she fell into step by the lady. They walked in silence for a few moments, until Myrcella could not resist any longer.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, lady Mormont.” she said as they walked. “Your bravery and prowess in battle is known even as far as Dorne. Obara Sand always told me she would like to measure her strength against yours one day.”

Dacey turned to look at her, amusement in those light brown eyes that seemed almost golden when the light hit them right.

“Obara Sand, the first of the Sand Snakes?”

Myrcella’s smile grew. “Yes, the same. You’ve heard of her?”

Dacey chuckled low. “Aye, I’ve heard of her. She’s a right hammerhead, that one.”

But there was amusement in Dacey’s eyes and warmth in her tone, the kind that followed familiarity, and Myrcella wanted to ask lady Mormont if they had met. If perhaps Obara had followed her father’s army –Myrcella did not doubt for a second that she would – but they were too close to the King’s tent and there was no time for a conversation.

“She has her moments, yes.” Myrcella said instead, smiling as she remembered. “But she admires you. And so do I.”

Dacey nodded her thanks as she held open the flap of the King’s tent for Myrcella to pass through.

The King was busy speaking to several of his men, one of them at his right was as the tallest, biggest man Myrcella had ever seen aside from the Mountain. ( _she was terrified of the Mountain_.)

They all looked up when she came in. Myrcella curtsied in front of them.

“Your grace, my lords. Good morning.”

She noted the look in their eyes when they took her in, the stiffness in their necks when they bowed their heads, eyes never leaving her as if she was a snake in their midst. These were among her betrothed’s most loyal bannermen, soon to be _her_ bannermen too… and Myrcella had to find some way to win them over, even slightly. At the moment, that possibility was cozily cooped up right next to the impossible. Myrcella idly wondered if the position of their King had faltered in their eyes, ever since they learned that he was to marry their enemy’s daughter.

But then again, she supposed that after a war so long and hard, they would welcome any chance for peace, even if it involved a bastard princess.

“Princess, your men reached us this morning, with your belongings. I was told that there are several knights assigned to be your guards.”

Myrcella frowned at that. Several? But the King was not yet done, and the worst of it was that she could not tell, from his eyes or his tone, what he made of this.

“You are free to keep them all under your service as you best see fit of course, but I council you against a large guard.”

Myrcella understood why perfectly. She’d look like a right fool and be ridiculed at best; thought of as a coward.

“I was not aware of such measures, your grace.” Myrcella said, sounding surer than she felt. “With your permission, I’d rather send the lot of them back to King’s Landing.”

She noticed the surprise in his eyes. She didn’t dare look away from him to measure the lords beside him. She was gambling a great deal here… or nothing at all, depending on how one chose to look at it. If the King wished to harm her, there was nothing a anyone could do to stop it.

“You don’t see the need to have a sworn shied?” the King asked, regarding her carefully.

She had not had a sworn shied since ser Aerys had died. She had not trusted a man with her protection since that day, and never would.

“We are travelling in the middle of your army, your grace. I doubt I can be better protected than that.”

The smile that curved her lips was the first one he had ever directed at her. It was lopsided and didn’t reach his eyes, but there was amusement in them all the same. He knew _exactly_ what she was doing, what she was saying without speaking. Perhaps he also understood that she was putting herself entirely on his hands and depending on whatever kindness he chose to show her… or not show her.

It truly was too much hope to put on any man, but nothing could be gained by risking nothing.

“That is true, but I would still feel more at ease knowing there is someone guarding you against what cannot be predicted. Lady Mormont was the shied I had in mind. She is part of my private guard and a fierce warrior. You’d be guarded well.”

The way he spoke it made her think as if it was an open question. As if he was waiting to see what her opinion on the matter was. The illusion of a choice was sometimes as sweet as any kindness. It was sheer luck that Myrcella was perfectly happy with the opinion presented to her.

“I have heard nothing but the best praise for the warrior women of house Mormont.” Myrcella said looking at the King and then turning to the Lady in question, who inclined her head in Myrcella’s direction. “I would be honoured to have you as my protector, my lady.”   

“Then it is settled. In the mean time, I advise you council the men under your command to be a little less conspicuous, princess. It would make their time here... easier.” The King said. Myrcella could feel the blush that was heating her cheeks to a fierce red of embarrassment.

“I have already done so, your grace.” Myrcella said flatly, harshly telling herself to _look up, look him in the eye_! “I beg your pardon, on their account.”

“You beg his pardon for their disrespect, or for their indecency?” a new voice asked, gruff and loud. She met the eyes of the man that had seemed to her like half a giant… and saw humour in them, mixed with the distaste he felt as he looked at her.

Myrcella held his eyes steadily as she spoke. “For both, my Lord.”

“They should be honoured to serve a lady generous enough to sacrifice her pride for theirs.” The King said sternly - stopping whatever the lord at his side had been about to say with a harsh look his way. “Thank you for your time, Princess.”

It was as gentle a dismissal as any. Myrcella curtsied, wished them a good day and then retired out of that tent – and it was only then that she was able to take a full breath at last.

x

It came sooner than she expected it to, the day that Myrcella thought would be her last. Not even a fortnight after she had joined the northern armies.

She admitted that she had been curious, in an unhealthy sort of way, about the wolf that the whole court in Kings Landing had been terrified about. Everyone in Dorne spoke of him as if it as a lie that had been made up by the northerners. Myrcella knew that the direwolves themselves were no lie – she remembered them from the visit north, years ago. Remembered Lady, who had belonged to Sansa, and Nymeria, Arya’s wolf. But, though Myrcella knew the wolf was real, she thought the rumours about its size and qualities had been greatly exaggerated. Some people said it was as big as any horse, others that it had eyes red as blood, and fur as black as night and made of steel!

Myrcella did not remember the King’s wolf from when she was in Winterfell that well, but she doubted it was as horrific as that – if it had been, she would have remembered it.

When she had asked Dacey about it, the lady told Myrcella that the animal was very much real though not with steel fur ( _Dacey had laughed at that_ ). The King called him Greywind because of the colour of his pelt, and he really was almost as tall as a small horse, the difference being negligible, seeing that a wolf of his size made a terrifying sight even without those inches more. The king did not ride the animal into battle apparently, but Greywind did as much damage as ten men, and there was no guard more loyal, or more trustworthy.

“You don’t sound afraid of him.” Myrcella noted, as they rode side by side. Dacey smiled good-naturally.

“I am not.” Dacey told her. “I have seen that beast tear men apart like they were nothing, but he has saved my life more than once. And he has never once attacked one of our soldiers, not in all these years. Besides, Greywind obeys the King unfailingly and I trust my King.”

At Myrcella look of confusion, Dacey had shrugged vaguely. “A direwolf could never be a pet, and yet the understanding between the Starks and their wolves is…” Dacey paused, and it seemed to Myrcella that she was trying to find a right word and failing. “-well, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, your grace.”

The stuff of legends, Myrcella thought in the privacy of her head. That is what Robert Baratheon had told her one: the Starks were shrouded in mystery that came right out of the pages of a dusty books. But this was no fantasy. Robb Stark was very much real and apparently, so was his direwolf.

“I heard people say that the King’s wolf can even tell when someone means him harm just by being in their presence.” Myrcella pressed on.

At her words, Dacey’s eyes darkened and her face hardened.

“Oh, he can smell treachery alright. That has saved our lives more than once.”

There was heaviness in Dacey’s voice, so much that Myrcella thought it best to change the subject, because it was so very obvious that whatever was going through lady Mormont’s mind at the moment had to be unpleasant indeed to cast such a shadow on her face.

During those days, Myrcella had wondered and tried to imagine the animal that Dacey described but she had to admit that she had some difficulty. That is, until one morning she slipped out of her tent and not even ten paces later she found herself face to face with the beast.

Her breath froze in her lungs, and her steps faltered.

She had tried to picture a wolf that was the size of a horse and she had thought that she could, but _this_ … this was…

_This is unreal…_

And yet it was very much a reality.

The beast’s snout was bloody and as it snarled at her, blood dripped from its mouth. There were no words for Myrcella’s terror, for her heart hammering like the wings of a mockingbird in her breast… She could not breathe; all she could see was those lips pulled back in a snarl, that low growl, a head that was bigger than her torso and a mouth of teeth so sharp that it would not even take a second to rip her apart. Those yellow eyes stared at her with both an uncommon intelligence and an animal’s blindness at the same time. Out of habit perhaps, Myrcella tried to think of a way to escape, something to do to live, but her mind could not conjure an option. There was no way out of this, not this time. She was alone and she would die alone, of a violent, bloody death, far away from any who loved her…

_It seems to be the chosen death for Princesses of the Iron Throne…_

The beast started circling her, licking its bloody chops and Myrcella could not help but follow the motion with wide eyes, not daring to move, breathing so fast she felt the constraints of her dress against her chest. She closed her hands in fists, straightened her back and blinked rapidly to try and choke back the tears. It didn’t work though, she felt them fall down her cheeks as she had so rarely felt them throughout her life. What use was pride now, she wondered. More tears blurred her vision and Myrcella cursed whoever had said that prolonging death was its own form of torture.

She did not want to die looking into those terrible yellow eyes staring at her with such intent… so when she saw the beast crouch and gather its limbs, ready to spring at her, Myrcella closed her eyes and turned her face away, trying to think of nothing and seeing the faces of her family and all the people she had ever loved while sending a quick prayer to whoever was listening, for her death to be quick.

…but the bite of death never came.

Instead she felt a hand settle on her arm and she shivered so violently at the contact that she almost fell. And would have fallen, but the same hand caught her arm firmly and she know who it was before she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

The furious anger she saw on the King’s face when she looked up at him made her turn away immediately, wincing. She tried to wipe her tears with one hand, find some thread of composure as she told her legs to stop shaking and keep up her weight.

She would be no-one’s fool as long as she had a choice in it. And she was not going to die either, though not even five heartbeats ago she had been fully convinced of the contrary.

 _Pull yourself together_ …

But it wasn’t working.

There was some commotion around her and perhaps it had been that way all the while, only Myrcella had not heard any of it. She was vaguely aware of being pushed to walk, but she could not make sense of where she was going, because she was too preoccupied with the tears that would not stop falling no matter what she did to stop them.

She had never cried this way in her life: in stillness, without sobs or shaking, without so much as a whimper. Just tears leaking out from some deep dark place over a frozen face; tears that she had collected over a long time. Every bad memory, every horrible sensation came back and she could not stop those tears from falling, even as she was ushered inside a tent or other, even as she tripped and almost fell, only to be caught and even as she felt her feet leave the ground entirely, lifted up like a child. Even then she had not the presence of mind for anything but a half-hearted struggle that led nowhere. If before her insides ha felt like someone had filled them with iron, now her bones themselves had liquefied.

She could barely move, a horrible feeling overtaking her: the knowledge that something had just broken within her and all the rivers of her existence were leaking out. All the tears she had refused to shed for years, all of them were overwhelming her. She was so out of herself that she did not even have enough sense to be ashamed of them. And when she was laid on a soft bed of furs that smelled foreign, all she could do was push face against the softness of it and give in, just this once.


	3. You have to know your name

_3\. You have to know your name_

_‘We frail humans are at one time capable of the greatest good and, at the same time, capable of the greatest evil. Change will only come about when each of us takes up the daily struggle ourselves to be more forgiving, compassionate, loving, and above all joyful in the knowledge that, by some miracle of grace, we can change as those around us can change too._ _  
_

-[ _Mairead Maguire_](http://www.wisdomquotes.com/003466.html) _-_

 

When the raven had first arrived from King’s Landing with Tywin Lannister’s terms of peace, Robb mulled the possibilities over for a long time before summoning his council, which had been (predictably) dead set against to the idea. However, it had taken little persuasion to convince them of the benefits of the proposal, mostly because all of his bannermen were tired of war and they wanted to go home - winter was well on its way and there were other, more dangerous battles to be fought and they all knew that. So if wedding the King to an almost princess was the price to pay, so be it. In private, he had discussed this with his mother much more at length, before he spoke with his men. There were very few privy to his true reasons for agreeing to wed the bastard princess of the Iron Throne, men that he would forswear his life to. Men that he needed as witnesses.

But after all that was done, it was to prince Oberyn that Robb had wanted to speak to. All the realm knew that Myrcella Baratheon had been taken to Dorne since she was barely two and ten and that was where she spent her whole life until her queenly mother had finally had her successfully kidnapped and brought back to King's Landing. (He didn’t allow himself to think that perhaps, had the dornishmen guarded the princess a little better, he wouldn’t have to worry about marrying a second Cercei Lannister) So if there was anyone who knew this elusive Princess' character if would be the Red Viper since, after all, she had been raised in his brother’s court.

When Robb had asked, the prince had smiled that secret smile of his, dark eyes glittering in the firelight of the camp, full of secrets.

“You do know that her face was slashed open, yes?”

Robb had felt the prickle of irritation, but held his tongue and simply nodded. The Viper had shrugged him off then, and continued talking.

“Her manners are polished, her wits are quick and her elegance is that of a true princess. And of course, she has her mother’s absolutely stunning face –unless you’re a man to prefer the image of perfection, you’re going to find her attractive enough even with that scar. In fact, there are those, such as myself-” the Prince had continued[A1] , his smile turning wickedly sharp in turn. “-who say that she is more beautiful than Cercei Lannister ever was, because she has none of her mother's bitterness, and where Cercei's beauty is like a frosty blade, her daughter’s is as warm the sun of my country.”

Which was all well and good, but there had been something in Prince’s eyes when he spoke that had made Robb wonder. Robb had sensed from the beginning that the Red Viper was a man of powerful passions and strong contradictions – and there had been one of those contradicting emotions in his eyes then, as Robb contemplated his words. And that was when beautiful Ellaria, who at meals never left Oberyn’s side, nudged at her lover with a kiss on his cheek (and even a chaste gesture as that seemed somehow more sensual than it had any right to be, coming from her lips).

“Don’t be a grump, lover.” She had said softly, and that had caused Oberyn to roll his eyes, but smile at her nonetheless. Ellaria had turned to Robb then and smiled at him with the content look of a stretching feline, her large smoky eyes reminding him very much of a shadowcat's stare. Robb had had to adapt to many of the dornish ways when he welcomed the alliance with them, but he could not quite adjust how free dornish women seemed, how confident in their own skin and purpose – whatever that may be. Ellaria for example was one of a kind: so unashamed of herself, but somehow managed not to seem shameless because of it – there was too much pride in her for that. Or perhaps it was only Oberyn’s lover who was that way.

“My beloved is cross because the little princess has never given him a reason to despise her but for the blood in her veins. And you can’t very well hate a little girl just for that, can you?” Ellaria had explained and then chuckled as if that was a funny jape… and perhaps, considering all things, it really had been. But Robb had not been able to appreciate it then.

Oberyn had scoffed however.

“I can, and I should… but I’m not a fool, so I don’t.” He’d muttered, somewhat petulantly. He could, but apparently he did not. Robb remembered the sharpness in Ellaria’s eyes as she eloquently raised a beautifully-arched eyebrow at her lover, making the prince smile around the rim of his cup before he turned to Robb again.

“My nephew  Trystane, to whom the princess was betrothed to, used to say that Myrcella is what my daughter Tyene pretends to be: the sweetest girl that ever lived. As far as I know, my nephew was not wrong.” The Prince had said and raised his glass of wine to Robb, laughter dancing in his dark eyes. “But you should not forget, Wolf King, that this princess of the Iron Throne was raised in Dorne, among the Sand Snakes - and my daughters are not delicate creatures. The weak do not survive them.”

Robb had thought about those words carefully and he was thinking carefully on them even now, months later.

He had met Oberyn’s daughters - the oldest four of them. It had been a wonder to see them riding with the army, Robb had not thought that their father would have allowed them to come, much less ride in battle. It had not taken him long to understand however, that the Sand Snakes were not women to be _allowed_ anything, just as he had come to understand that, though in different ways, the Snakes were all fierce and dangerous in the same measure. (Arya _adored_ them for it, and she had already asked him if she could join them in Dorne when everything was settled. He had half a mind to let her.) By either lance, spear, darts or arrows, they were as efficiently lethal as their father was and it took a mind's eye he did not poses to imagine the quiet and so well-mannered princess to whom he was betrothed to, growing up with women so fierce and bold.

It felt like a stretched truth… but not an impossible one. It had taken Robb very little scrutiny to realize that his wife-to-be was not as delicate a creature as she may first appear. As petty as it sounded, it really was a shame that a face such as hers was so marred, but despite feeling that way Robb really did not care about her scar – he had plenty of his own and never bothered about them. Hers was more immediate than any he had, true, and it would be a lie to say it was not unpleasant, just as it would be a lie to say it was grotesque. There was a certain appeal to it even, in how it took something out of the sweetness of her looks, replacing it with the hardness of painful experiences. It grounded him to earth, reminded him that this was no sweet maiden: Myrcella Baratheon was Cercei Lannister daughter and if nothing else, proof of steel was in the way she spoke when she asked to say goodbye to her family, in the way she had come into his tent that first night and held his eyes without wavering even though he could see she was nervous, perhaps even afraid. Afraid yes, which had surprised him and shocked him out of that initial hardness and cold detachment he fell back on whenever he was unsure of how to act.

He could freely admit that he had had no idea how to act towards the princess when he had first met her. From the very beginning he had given her little thought but for what she meant for his country and his family and his men. She had hardly been real, until he saw her face that day when Sansa was returned to him. After that, he had not thought of her much beyond his wonderings of how to handle someone he could not seem to get a clear understanding of.

She was nothing like Roslyn, he had thought one night, as he pondered her person (and privately he admitted that this gap between the princess and his first wife was perhaps a kindness, otherwise Robb had no idea how he would ever be able to go through with this godforsaken marriage). She was nothing like any woman he had ever met, for that matter, but Roslyn was who Robb compared her to, for reasons that to him were obvious. Roslyn had been scared and fretful and so very shy at first… so very honest too, with wide doe eyes of golden brown and a kind heart that he had taken warm comfort in. She had been so gentle, so eager to love him that the affection that had grown in him for her that been as easy as breathing. She had been brave too, brave in daring to trust him from the start, in daring to gamble her faith in him even though she’d never met him before the day she came to be his wife. On the other hand, Myrcella born Baratheon, with Lannister blood in her veins, was the farthest cry from Roslyn Frey there could ever be, contrary to her in every single way: Where Roslyn’s beauty had been subtle, gentle and sweet, the princess’ was bold, immediate, undeniable even with that savaged cheek of hers that she never bothered to hide. Roslyn had been unblemished from the inside out, a piece of innocence that had survived everything she had seen in life - Walder Frey included. The way Roslyn had clung to goodness had astounded Robb, brought him back into a world where innocence still survived. The princess on the other hand had eyes that spoke of a hard survivor’s journey, eyes that saw true and sharp, not quite so honest nor so trusting and sometimes Rob thought she was as hardened as he was. And if he had been so easily swayed to care for Roslyn from the very first night he spent with her, Robb could not even be persuaded to speak more than five sentences in a row to this Princess that was to take her place.

Take her place… Robb snorted at the thought. Nobody could ever take anybody’s place in anyone’s heart. People just built layers.

_A princess…_

No matter what blood flowed in her veins, it was an easy thing to see that Myrcella of House Baratheon – or whatever house - was raised as royalty. She _was_ a princess. She carried herself with dignity that started in her eyes and stood with her back straight in such a way that it made her seem even taller than she was - and she was not short to begin with. Her every movement was measured, the elegance of them one such as he had never seen, because there was nothing behind it but grace. You could not see the effort, only that natural poise that made you think it was all an afterthought, as if the Princess had been born that way and not taught courtly manners like all ladies. It was easy to see royalty in her, despite that scar on her face that made her look more like a warrior than a lady. Perhaps that dignity of hers so bereft of arrogance was what had stopped some of his bannermen from going too far with their insults behind her back. Ignorance and hatred will do as they please of course, but those that had two coins worth of sense to rub together and a little honour, found it hard to insult too heavily a lady that had the most royal presence any one of them had ever seen.

There were other things about her too… things much easier to notice. Kissed by fire, the wildlings said of those that had red in their hair - that’s what Jon had told him. If that was the way, Myrcella Baratheon had to be kissed by the sun. She was vibrant in it – in her hair, on her skin - as if she had been dipped in gold from head to foot (and he’d be a liar if he had not imagined how that looked like beneath her clothes as well, the moment that expression occurred to him…) Andal blood, some called it (though it did her no favours since for some she seemed to be a living emblem to her family). To Robb it seemed as if she carried summer under her skin. The warmth of it was even in the dramatic green of her eyes - eyes that after the kingslayer’s company were almost familiar. Almost. The Princes’ eyes were wider, rounder. Not quite so sharpened by cynicism perhaps, not nearly as cold as her mother’s, for sure.

Her mother… the queen’s shadow followed this princess’ every step. Everyone looked at her and saw her mother, and Robb was no different. But at least, he was cleverer than most: Robb had stopped worrying about having another Cercei Lannister in his bed when he saw the princes smile for the first time. It had not been directed at him of course, but at Sansa, who was the sole receiver of the Princess’s unguarded moments. Ever since the princess had set foot in his line of vision, Robb had been trying to determine the truth about Myrcella Baratheon – and perhaps had been unkind in doing so, with his gruff manner and measuring stares - trying to understand her without the benefit of speaking to her himself. Unfair, yes. But when had life ever been fair? He had wanted to know from which angle to grab this foreign creature, trying to understand which side was less poisonous, which was safe, if any. He did not trust her poise and her grace, that careful control on her face and the distant politeness with which she regarded all about her. If anything, it made him even more suspicious of her.

But then he had seen her release that so careful royal face, had seen the poise let up and make way for something real, something _alive_ , the green of her eyes vibrating with startling life, her face warming, so unexpectedly kind… Robb had no idea what she and Sansa had been speaking of but when she had smiled, he had understood that this princess was nothing like her mother. She could not be, if she was capable of smiling that way.

He remembered the queen from the weeks she had spent in Winterfell. More than a month in his home and Robb had never once seen the woman smile. It was always those razor-sharp smirks with her, lopsided and mocking. The ice queen, they had called Cercei back then, in whispers and in jest. The bitch queen, the Lannister woman, mother of madness – those were some among the tiles that she held. There was none of that in the princess though. She kept to her own company, but she was not frozen. It had been a small relief.

But that warmth of real emotion melted away like summer snow whenever the princess caught sight of him. She was so reserved that talking to her seemed harder than drawing blood of a stone - which was why in a whole fortnight, he had barely spoke two words to her. Perhaps the princess was not in the wrong; after all, Robb knew he had not been exactly welcoming and perhaps she used courtesy as a fallback, because she was as unsure about him as he was about her. But there was something else to the way she regarded him, a weariness he could not name. Robb didn’t exactly know what that emotion she watched him with was, if it was fear, or suspicion or dislike, or perhaps a mixture of all three. She masked her emotions well behind all that fixed polite expression (her royal face, he had started calling it) and had he been a lesser man he could even have been distracted by it as she undoubtedly meant him to, but it had been a long time since a man – or woman, for that matter - had been able to deceive him. Robb could see that she was weary of him more than she was of anyone else.

It would have been so easy to say that she feared him, but Robb knew fear and that was not what he saw in her - at least not entirely. In a fortnight of dining with his family and watching her from afar, he had noticed patterns in her behaviour, and more importantly, the fact that these patters only applied to _him_. She always froze when he was near and whenever he spoke to her, or even looked at her, she… it seemed as if she hid behind herself, behind that wall that was her royal person. And he knew how to tell the difference between her expressions, because she did not react this way with anyone else _but_ him.

Robb had never thought himself as a particularly frightening man and he knew that there were harsher men about her, men who spoke to her not always kindly, no matter what Robb had ordered. And yet Dacey said (with a veil of unconcealed admiration in her tone) that the Princess never flinched in front of anyone, never looked down or hunched her shoulders, or got visibly angry about anything.

She didn’t fear any of them. None but him. It set him thinking.

But as it was common, just when Robb had resolved that he could not go on ignoring his betrothed until it was time for the wedding, no matter what his personal doubts might be, the proverbial shit hit the fan.

Perhaps he had waited too long, even if too long was just two miserable weeks.

ooo

He had been shocked by the strength of it, as one is when catching a familiar scent in utter incomprehensible circumstances. He had smelled fear through Greywind before, but this was… it was that sheer terror that had no name, and that pierced his senses like a lightning searing the night sky. This was not what he had expected when he sensed his friend close by.

Robb got up so suddenly that the Greatjon moved his hand to his sword immediately and looked around, stepping in to protect his flank.

“What is it?” the big man asked, but Robb put a calming hand on his shoulder just as he started forward with a pace as swift as he could without outright running. He knew exactly where Greywind had picked up that scent and he could hardly imagine what had befallen the Princess to terrify her so much that she should smell of death, and so sharply so that Robb could practically taste it in his own mouth. He didn’t like how with every step, the silence around him deepened, as if this part of the camp was made of mute men. They parted for him hastily, his men, but he thought nothing of it – he should have. There had been alarm in their eyes, but Robb hadn’t noticed.

But then he came within sight of his mother’s tent and saw her standing there, tall and straight and frozen as Nymeria growled, circling her like prey and Greywind watched from the sidelines, his restless pacing concentrating into fierceness when Robb came close. He noticed her rapid breathing, her pale face, the white knuckles of her fisted hands… saw Nymeria coil, ready to spring and tear her apart and saw the princess make no noise and no movement beyond turning her face away and closing her eyes, a tear staining her cheek and her scar as it fell.

His stomach fell through to the ground even as he moved to her and with a voice that boomed even in the middle of battle, ordered the wolf back, even as Greywind growled at his sister from the sideline of his vision, backing Nymeria into the woods. That was all it took for the men around them to burst to life, acting busy, all trying so hard to seem they had something to do, anything but to stand there and watch. Robb turned to the princess, and with trepidation, he dared speak to her. She had not yet opened her eyes and when she did not respond to her title, he put his hand on her arm, gently as if she might be made of glass.

He expected her to shiver away, to jump, even scream. All she did was open her eyes and hit him with that _look_ …

For a moment he felt himself become smaller under her eyes.

But then she winced and looked away immediately. Her tears would not stop coming down though, no matter how fast she blinked. It was an uncomfortable wonder to see her then, because though he took no joy in her pain or her tears, they distracted him from the intensity of his anger at the moment… and he was very much aware that he needed distracting. Robb looked at nobody but her, because he could not trust himself to look about and catch sight of Arya by mistake. He was too angry for it now. Arya and her punishment for this idiocy would have to wait. Wait for him to usher the princess into his tent (strange how easily she followed his direction) and apologise for her distress in a way that he hoped would convince her he was not craven enough to set wolves on her on purpose.

But she would not stop her tears, or rather, the tears refused to stop falling no matter how harshly she dashed them away or how fast she tried to blink them into submission. She was so frozen as she cried… as if her eyes were just leaking water and nothing more. Not another muscle of her face moved and Robb wondered if maybe she was in shock still. He was convinced of it when she tripped on the hem of the rug and almost fell on her face.

She weighted little over nothing when he caught her and set her on his bed. He could not think of what else to do with her, but as his discomfort grew along with his sympathy, for the very first time it occurred to him that she too was unsure and afraid and very much alone as well, in the middle of an army that were her enemies… and bound to marry a man that was…

Robb froze for a moment, and then took a step back, watching the line of her shoulders and how it trembled ever so faintly every as the princess sobbed in utter silence, face hidden away in his furs. Who knew what she thought of him, what they said in southern courts about him. She had probably been told that he was some savage that was as likely to rape her here and now as he was to set wolves on her at any moment – an opinion that was only going to be reinforced after this blunder today.

Who _did_ she think she was marrying? And what would she think now, after this?

Robb felt his feet take another step back, shame starting to burn in him. And there had he been, like a right prick, wondering about her reserve and the distance she kept, wondering why she looked at him with dread. Wondering what her game was when she had refused to keep Lannister soldiers as guards. What would _they_ be able to do, if he had meant her real harm? Nothing at all, nothing but watch. And she had known that. He’d known it too, but only now was he able to understand a little bit of what that would mean for her, if he really were so cruel.

Gods, but he felt like the monster that she no doubt thought he was…

He couldn’t stand it a moment longer!

Robb turned and left her there before he started ripping his hair off in his rage. It was proof that the gods could be merciful, when he saw Sansa outside his tent, anxious but careful not to come in. It took her only a look at him to know what he needed and Robb had never loved his sister more than when she slipped by him, her hand briefly on his arm before she went inside his tent and left him to himself.

But by himself he was the most dangerous, and all around him men seemed to take notice of that. Robb felt his fists clench and unclench and the storm inside him heaved.

He needed to run; run his rage raw. He needed the forest.

ooo

The hiss of a sword through air and clash of steel rang in his ears and Robb concentrated all his senses and perception in the movements of his arms and legs: all the fierceness of his anger, the depths of his disappointment. He had to focus on his adversary and the long spear the Red Viper yielded with such deadly precision, on escaping it, evading it’s sting to get close enough o the man to slash at him at least once.

“You’re starting to miss, my friend.”

The taunt went right over his head at this point. There was nothing the dornish prince could say to make Robb any angrier than he was, but even if he had not been in such a state, Robb would still not have fallen for it. Swordplay had always been a source of focus and sharpness for him, but more than that, with the years and with testing in crucial moments, Robb had learned to rear in his emotions and control his temper in a way that served him well when all around him the world wanted to crumble. If he lost control every time his emotions got the better of him, Robb would spend much more time running with Greywind that he already did and that was unacceptable.

Robb looked at the prince, calculated distance, strength, velocity and his enemy’s movement and then lunged… and managed to shove at Oberyn’s spear enough to crash into him and send the man off balance, enough to swing the sword at him. Missed of course, but that was not the point.

They were at it until Robb was exhausted and his limbs felt heavy like they were made of lead. And when the prince took off is armour, Robb could see that Oberyn too was breathing hard and his sweaty forehead spoke of the same fatigue Robb felt. It was easier now though, to think back at what had happened. His exhaustion seemed to eat away at his temper, leaving him to bear only the memory of his previous fury… and even then, even just the memory of it was hot enough to burn.

He could hardly believe Arya’s stupidity. Her selfish incomprehension of the consequences of her actions had set him into a rage that had very few others for comparison.

Robb did not consider himself a temperamental man. In his youth he had been quick to anger and just as quick to forgive and forget, but the rebellion and war had changed him. His humours had grown to be for the most part steady, and even though he knew the hotness of wolfblood in his veins, fate had seen fit to temper it with a cool reason that everyone said mirrored his father’s. War had forged him into a man with an iron control over his own self, and battle had imprinted upon him the steadiness of a sharp rule over his body and mind even as the hotness of battle-rage took over him.

And still, all of it had been trampled to nothing in front of the wrath he’d felt mere hours prior.

All his work, all the careful planning and years of blood and death and the utter desolation of war… all of it wiped clean because of the stupidity of one girl - his own sister. No matter that he had spoken to her beforehand, knowing that the princess’ presence in the camp would likely set Arya off in all manner of mischief; no matter that he had warned her that, despite any kind of behaviour, the princess was not for harming, because she was the key to the very fragile truce with the south. (No matter that the princess was as bloody far from bothersome as anyone could be. She hardly stirred the air about her own person for fuck’s sake!) He had been very clear that Arya was to steer clear of the girl everyone said had her mother’s face, if his sister could not bear to keep herself civil. Robb had been stern in his commands and when Arya had only nodded in front of them, he had known that his sister was not convinced, but he had trusted her not to act against his explicit directive.

He had _trusted_. And his sister had gone and done _this_ …

 _‘I didn’t mean to kill her.’_ Arya had told him, as meekly as Arya ever could, as Robb paced in front of her, all rage and fury without anywhere to unleash them on.

 _‘I just wanted to scare her a little’_ she’d said.

That had been when Robb had left his mother’s tent. He could not even bear to look at Arya any longer and he knew that should he stay and face that argument with her then, he would say and do things that he could possibly regret. He had been much too angry for rational thought in that moment. But he had been rational enough to order her mother not to let Arya leave the tent for any reason. His sister would be the one to put the chains on Nymeria, with her own hands, as a punishment for both their recklessness.

_‘I just wanted to scare her a little.’_

It sounded so trivial. So foolish, like child’s-play… and it sounded even crueller when he thought of it that way. He could see it so clearly still: Nymeria, huge and bloody, coiling for the kill. A flash of wide, terrified green eyes – eyes that for the first time showed the truth about the young age of the princess they belonged to… and his shame renewed with a twinge of his insides.

He had played the same trick on the Kingslayer once, but it had not seemed to him nearly so cruel as doing it to his daughter. The Kingslayer was a grown man, a soldier. He was prepared for worse. He deserved worse after all he had done. But the Princess was a different matter and doing the same to her was cruel, because it was _unwarranted_. His mind screamed the word at him, stroking the embers of rage again, wishing he were speaking to his sister and not just inside his own head. Her ridiculous play had been an utterly unjustifiable act of malice and as vicious as it was stupid, damn it! Had that wolf slipped out of Arya’s control for even a moment, they would have been plunged right back into a war that would have lasted as long as Cercei Lannister and her spawns lived.

It was unwarranted, he told himself again and this time he felt the full weight of a guilt that did not belong to him settle on his gut. It had not been Greywind to terrify the life right out of the princess, but it had been _him_ whom to whom she had looked at with the void eyes of those that knew the taste of death… and it had not been his imagination that made him see in her eyes a thin betrayal that she had no right to feel.

Or perhaps all the rights in the world. She was to be his, was she not? She was going to be his lady wife, his queen, and in the two weeks travelling with her he had barely spoke a word to her.

He should have known better. And the princess had all the rights in the world to feel betrayed. He was _King_ … if he was unable to stop his house’s direwolves from tearing his own betrothed apart, he was nothing.

Robb sighed and rubbed his forehead trying to root out the splintering ache building there. He had known that there were things behind Arya’s eyes he would never get to be privy to. Dark things, violent things that she would never speak of. When Bolton had found her at Harrenhall and brought her to him, she had been almost unrecognisable. So cold, so hard. She had still cried though, when he had taken her in his arms and held her, and she had cried harder when their mother had almost fallen on her knees at the sight of her and sobbed as they held each other. Arya was his sister, his wild-little-boy sister, still, and that darkness abated just a little more with every day she spent with her family. But there was a thirst for blood in her that Robb recognised. Arya hungered for vengeance with a single-mindedness that was characteristic of her, and she was as ruthless as any man of war about getting it.

Robb could not deny it that sometimes he felt the same way himself, but he did not have the luxury of giving in to those that he perceived to be baser instincts. He had a crown to bear, with all the responsibilities that came with it. He could ill afford to turn into a ruthless man. If he did, that same ruthlessness would ripple across his men, elevated to the tenth power in each of them and the destruction that would follow would be a hundred times more grave than Robb was prepared to have on his conscience. War was beastly enough without it. Even now, being as he was, fighting to never forget how to care, he could not always contain the unprovoked savagery of his men. It was the nature of war.

He had made peace with the fact that he could not control everything a long time ago. But it seemed that he could not even control his own sister.

“You seem aggravated. What ails your mind, my friend?”

Robb looked to his right, when Oberyn came to him and spoke with that usual direct manner that Robb had appreciated in the Prince of Dorne from the very start.

“My sister.” Robb said laconically. The Prince had no way of having heard what had happened. His party had only just joined the main army from their long scouting mission. In fact, both Nymeria and Greywind had been with them, leading them into the deep woods ahead of the main army to secure a safe passage through the Riverlands.

As soon as Robb had left his mother’s tent, he had walked for the practice yards that the soldiers had set up. His men parted from him without even daring to look at him in the eye, and he had beaten several of them to the ground in the practice rig, before the Viper came to him, still in his full armour and looking like he just got off his horse and, laughing, challenged him into a match _‘since you seem to be in a sparring mood’_. Robb had accepted, but in truth they both had known that he had simply been in a very foul mood and had wanted to vent off the violence he felt coiling in him in a  way that could do controllable damage.

“What of your sister?” Oberyn asked, now much more darkly. “I heard she was returned to you whole and healthy.”

And there was the threat of darkness in those words, the implicit violence that was always very close to the surface with the Red Viper when it came to the matter of sisters of any kind. That violence had not abated when he had taken the Mountain’s head… and Robb imagined it could not, not that kind of hatred. He too was of the sort that wanted all Lannisters to rot in the sun.

“She was, though I doubt she is as unharmed as she pretended to be for my sake.” Robb said, thinking back as Sansa’s wretched sobs when she had first seen him, the desolation in her eyes sometimes, when she thought nobody was looking. “But I was speaking of my other sister.”

Oberyn smiled. “Ah, the little she-wolf. She is the aggravation then?”

Yes, Robb thought as he heard the amusement in Oberyn’s tone, Arya had a gift for making friends among the fierce. And Oberyn liked his sister well enough.

“You could say that, yes.” Robb didn’t know how to even begin explaining the incident in a way that sounded sensible. For all the good graces between them, he and the Prince of Dorne were not so close in friendship as to warrant free discussion of family matters.

The silence stretched as they walked towards one of the centres of the camp and it would have gone on had one of Oberyn’s daughter’s not interrupted it.

“Your grace, father.” She bowed her head in the manner of all dornish, forgoing the curtsey since she was, as all her sisters, wearing leather breeches and not a gown. Robb took in her sharp features, the almost-black curls of her braid and the smoky dark eyes that were just like her fathers. This was Elia, Robb remembered, the youngest of the sisters here, and the one that Oberyn himself said was the ‘most difficult’. A clever euphemism for the fact that she had her father’s exact temperament and they clashed like storm clouds whenever they disagreed on anything. At six-and-ten Elia was as fierce and proud as her sisters and she was in many ways the only one that had the nerve to argue with her father in a way that her older – and wiser – siblings did not. Robb however recognised Oberyn’s stubbornness when it came to his youngest for what it was: the prince had a weakness for her in a way that he did not for her other daughters who were all fully grown and perfectly able to take care of themselves. And perhaps it was also because, aside from the eyes that she had taken from her father, Elia was the exact replica of her mother. It was impossible to look at her and not see Ellaria Sand’s exotic likeness.

“Forgive me for interrupting your grace.” The girl said, looking him in the eye in the bold way that Robb was used to now. “I have heard that Princess Myrcella is here, yet I cannot seem to find her and nobody will tell me where to look. Nobody seems to dare even speak her name.”

Robb took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. It was the guilt, he realized and even though he hardened his face against it so that it might not be readable in his face, he knew his own heart and couldn’t lie to himself.

“The Princess is resting.” He said carefully, and those eyes that everyone called ‘viper eyes’ snapped at him and zeroed in on his face with an expression of absolute incredulity at first… and then with a kind of venomous suspicion that stung. “My sister’s direwolf frightened her, and I took her to my tent, so that she could be undisturbed. My sister Sansa is with her, you need not worry.”

From his right, Robb heard Oberyn’s soft _‘Ah’_ of comprehension and the prince limited himself in that, but not his daughter. She said nothing of course, but those snake-eyes of hers were intent on him.

“May I have permission to visit her, your grace?” she asked then, carefully and he knew how much it was costing her to even ask for such a thing as permission – but she had to, since after all it was his private quarters she wanted to go into. Oberyn had told him that Elia was the one child who was likely never to ask about anything… but these were his private quarters she intended to visit. “I assure you, the princess will want me there. We were always the closest of friends.”

Robb found that surprising and expected in equal parts. “Very well. You have my leave.”

Elia Sand did not thank him, nor did the hardness of her eyes recede. She only inclined her head to him and then took her leave with a swift pace that was only a breath away from an outright run.

“Just out of curiosity, did the direwolf attack?”

Robb felt his irritation flare at the prince’s laid back tone.

“No. But I’m sure you know that is inconsequential. Nymeria scares most men just by walking by.”

The prince snorted. “Perhaps it is so, but your princess is not most men.”

 _She is not my princess either_ , Robb wanted to say.

“She does not scare easy. In fact, I have rarely met a man or woman so prone to quiet fearlessness.”  The prince pressed again.

Robb had to turn and look at the prince then, and Oberyn shrugged in that usual careless way of his.

“Safe to say that the direwolf did not just walk by then?” Oberyn pushed, and Robb would have liked nothing better than to punch that smirk off the Prince’s face.

“No, she did not.” He answered, looking ahead as he walked away briskly. Oberyn’s snicker followed him and all Robb could think of was how much he missed Jon in that moment. Even fucking Theon would have been a better option, though Theon would have probably made a great companion to Oberyn since they seemed to have the same sick sense of humour. But it had been a long time since Robb could think of Theon without his heart clenching.

ooo

Myrcella woke slowly, the waking world filtering in her mind as smoke through water, in slow and lazy tendrils. She felt surrounded by warmth and the echo of a memory that belonged to some time ago, in another place where the sun was hot and bright and its fingers reached to her through latticed windows. It was pleasant to be wrapped in the feeling this brought her, so she lingered for a heartbeat more after the dreamy feel of this memory left her, only to open her eyes and find out that she had hot been dreaming at all.

Myrcella felt her breath hitch.

“Elia!”

She sat up immediately, perhaps a little too fast, and ended up with Elia wrapped around her in a strong embrace that she had missed.

“Gods… what are you doing _here_?!” she could not help but ask as Elia laughed in her ear.

“Well, where else would I be? You didn’t think I’d leave all the fun to you and my sisters now, did you?” Elia said as she drew back and reached out to Myrcella’s hair to fix back the stray curls that had escaped her braid as she slept. In front of Myrcella’s eyes widening with something very much like horror though, Elia offered a little more explanation.

“Oh, don’t look at me that way, it’s not like I’m riding into battle! Obara would have my hide.” And then her smile turned wicked, just like her mother’s was. “I did go scouting with my father’s men though.”

Myrcella shook he her head at her friend’s unusual concepts of a good fun time, but could not help the smile. Elia was bold and generous, but she was also one of the Sand Snakes and that was not to be forgotten.

“I came up when my father send word that you were doing to be the bride of Winter about a month ago. I sailed here with Dorne’s wedding gifts for you.”

Myrcella felt her face settle into the lopsided smile that she knew well, feeling the spark of mischief in her, one that she had not felt in a long while – ever since she had been parted from her usual partner in crime, actually.

“Are _you_ one of my wedding presents?”

Elia snorted. “You should be so lucky.” And then her eyes softened. “I was worried about you, you know. For a good time we thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Myrcella smiled sadly. “For a good time, so did I.”

Elia’s dark brows pulled together in a heavy frown. “Who was it that your queenly mother sent after you? Not even my father’s men could track you after you were taken away from Sunspear.”

Myrcella sighed. She did not want to go about digging in those memories. There was nothing pleasant about them.

“I don’t know where they were from. Sometimes I thought they spoke dornish, but their dialect was beyond me. And you could to track me because I never made it to Sunspear.” Myrcella saw the shock ripple through in Elia’s face. “I was taken a day after my party had left the Watergardens, and a decoy was used in my place. The kidnapping in Sunspear was a decoy, and I’m sure that so were the people you followed. I travelled to King’s Landing by ship.”

“But… but that’s impossible!” Elia said, getting up, her voice rising. “Nobody could have known that we were all at the Watergardens with my uncle, that was pure coincidence! And how was this decoy not recognised in Sunspear – yours is not a face anyone is likely to ever forget, Myr! And what about your guard – didn’t they notices that the princess they were supposed to be guarding was missing?!”

The more she spoke, the angrier Elia got.

“Those guards had already been bought.” Myrcella explained calmly, taking her friends hand in hers “And though you love me well and look me in the eye when you speak to me, you know that not everyone in Dorne has that same regard, Elia. A thin veil over this face and nobody ever knew the difference between me and someone who looks remarkably like me. Nobody thought twice about it - veiled women are common in Dorne.”

Elia scowled and kept pacing for a few more moments, anger stewing in her, but then she dropped herself on the chair she had been occupying moments ago, looking sad an sullen at the same time.

“That’s what father suspected you know. He told us almost the same thing. I just didn’t want to believe it.” Elia looked down at her hands. “Sounds so stupid, the way you were taken. Dorne should be ashamed of its own defences really… I’m sorry we let you go so easily Myrcella. I know you didn’t want to go back.”

Myrcella shrugged. Had she stayed in Dorne she would not be here as a bride to be, she would be here as a hostage. But she knew that Elia had never had an interest in politics and that was not the feeling behind her words anyway.

“I don’t know about easily. I put up quite a fight you know.”

Elia’s smile returned. “Oh, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. Did you kill any of them?”

It had been a joke, but the way Myrcella’s eyes sobered instantly let Elia know that she should not have said it so flippantly after all, since the answer to that light questing seemed to be a very definite yes.

“Huh… Obara will be proud of you.” Elia said then, after frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say and coming up only with this. “She’ll probably give you some sharp dagger to celebrate.”

Myrcella smiled and passed a hand over Elia’s thick black hair, always soft as a bird’s feathers no matter how wild Elia herself could be. She had learned to care in different ways for all her childhood companions, but Elia had been good to her from the start. She was fierce and she was rough, but there had been no push-and-pull games with her, no tricks. Elia had shown a strange patience for Myrcella, because she had loved Trystane almost as much as Myrcella had, and he had brought them together as fast friends. The three of them hardly were ever apart for a time. And then, when it had been just Elia and Myrcella, they had taken comfort in each other.

Elia’s eyes met hers and held, a smile widening on her full lips and Myrcella felt her heartbeat flutter with the happiness of familiarity, something that she had thought had been lost to her forever. It came to her in a moment… and went from her just as easily as she sat up in a bed that was not hers, surrounded by a scent she did not know and a space she had never seen before. Instinctively she knew where she was… remembered the tears that would not stop, (could still feel the puffiness of her face, the sting in her eyes) and how she had been picked up and settled here, in the same bed where she was sitting now…  A great heaviness settled in her chest at the memory. How could she have possibly allowed herself to lose her composure that way? How on earth would she ever repair the damage she had done now?

Nerves began to form, making her heart beat a little louder.

It was then that she looked around and saw Sansa seated close to her bed, smiling at her amiably – and at the sight of the red-haired princess did Myrcella become conscious of many things at once; among them the fact that she had been speaking with Elia in dornish all the while and that had been quite rude of them both. But Myrcella had slipped back into the familiar dessert language with the ease of someone that considered it as familiar on her tongue as the westerosi she had been borne speaking and only became aware of the slip when she saw Sansa there, where she had been all along.

Had she been sitting with her? Guarding her?

Myrcella did not know if the northern princess noticed the shift in her mood or not, but Sansa still got up and came to sit by her, face grave and eyes sober as she took her hand.

“I am so sorry Myrcella.” She said fully of feeling and Myrcella nodded, and tried to summon a proper response, but Sansa went on in a hurry before Myrcella could even open her mouth. “It would be too generous to say that it was an accident, but I swear that Arya did not mean you real harm. She’d just half wild and sometimes very stupid, but Robb promised me that he will never let Nymeria anywhere near the camp again…”

Sansa’s zeal toned down when she was met with the confusion in Myrcella’s eyes, one that grew the more she spoke. It took her only a moment to understand why the princess looked so tense in her presence, why that generic polite expression was gracing her face even as her eyes asked questions.

Sansa felt her mouth slacken in shock.

“You… you thought it was Greywind.” She whispered, unable to believe it. Myrcella’s eyes were steady on hers, but so void. There was no accusation there, only preservation. Sansa knew that look.

“You thought Robb had set him on you, didn’t you?” Of course she had. In her place, Sansa would have probably thought the same thing. Her cheeks heated with the blush of shame and guilt for her stupid little sister and her rashness… “Oh Myrcella, that was Nymeria… _Arya’s_ wolf.”

“I didn’t think much of anything really.” Myrcella admitted slowly, looking at the hands on her lap, and then giving a small smile at both Sansa and Elia too. “I just saw the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen snarling at me like I was dinner.”

Sansa flinched. “I’m… I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Myrcella finally said, but instead of a true feeling there was just exhaustion behind her words.

Sansa saw the change happen in Myrcella’s eyes. Saw her shake her head and straighten her spine, and then look up and herself and Elia Sand with a smile.

“I suppose I don’t have to introduce you two.” She said and Sansa looked over at the dornish girl, smiling a little.

“No, we got past that while you were busy crying yourself to sleep.” Elia said bluntly, not without a bite – which earned her a nudge by Myrcella’s foot.

“Play nice, Elia. The princess is not used to your blunders as I am.” The princess said with a small smile. Then, with another look around, she got up. “I suppose we should go. I don’t… I don’t want to be any more of an inconvenience for his grace than I already have.”

Elia looked at her as if she had lost her senses, but Sansa only sighed and seemed like she was about to apologise again, before nodding and going out first, leading their way from the tent.

“Sansa…”

Sansa turned when her name was called, and saw that the princes was smiling at her; a real smile this time and she knew it was so because it was so faint.

“Thank you for staying with me. You really are too kind, I’m afraid I’ve done little to deserve it.”

Elia snorted at that, not exactly the ladylike thing to do (but that had been obvious from the beginning, with how she was dressed – namely not in a dress) but Sansa smiled none the less, because she knew the truth: Myrcella may not have done much, but in a place where nothing was expected, a single hand reaching in the dark felt like it was giving you the world.

“Gods, you two are breaking my heart, really, but how about we get a move on - I’m starving.”

Sansa’s eyes were surprised at that particular brand of candour, but not without a certain amusement. Myrcella on the other hand, outright laughed. 

ooo

Sansa did not need to be told that the Princess and Elia Sand of Dorne had been good friends growing up. The easy familiarity of them was a clear tell, if nothing else. And the way Myrcella had slipped into that in unfamiliar language with the girl as soon as she opened her eyes told Sansa that Dorne had not been for the princess the way the Red Keep had been for her.

Myrcella introduced them of course and they spoke together for what felt like quite a while, hearing from Elia of all kinds of mischief they had been about while in the Watergardens of Dorne. It had been a relief to see Myrcella so at ease after what had happened not even two hours prior. And even a greater relief that she had woken to find a friendly face she trusted enough, because for all the understanding between herself and the Princess, Sansa knew that there was uncertainty Myrcella harboured in regard to her, and that she would never trust Sansa completely. At least not yet.

Trust seemed to be a tricky, slippery thing. And unfortunately, Arya had taken very good care in shattering it completely before it even breathed its first breath, where Myrcella and her brother were concerned.

Sansa was not completely aware of the reasons why she seemed to care. For all intents and purposes she should not. For all the amounts of times she had been hurt by Myrcella’s family, her mad brother, her cruel mother… by all  that was right in the world, Sansa should very well feel vengeful. And she did. Sometimes she thought she would choke on all the hatred she bore that family. But she would be a fool to discharge it on Myrcella, and Sansa was no fool. And she could not quite readily forget how the last months at court it had been so easy to hide, because it was Myrcella had had her brother’s attention, it was _her_ he preferred to torment and if, by any chance, Sansa managed to catch his attention, Myrcella would divert it every chance she could. Why had she done that Sansa did not know even now, and did not need to know. They never spoke of it and Sansa was sure they never would. It was best that way. She didn’t need reasons. Myrcella hadn’t needed them then, and Sansa would not need them now to repay her. As hard as it was to believe that Myrcella had done what she had done out of the kindness of her heart, Sansa did believe it, because never had she been asked for anything in return.

Sansa had left Myrcella in Elia Sand’s company and that other woman’s, Obara was her name. She was a hulking giant by all accounts, very much alike her mother’s sworn shied, Briene of Tarth, in body (but not quite as unpleasant of face, admittedly) loud and brash and dressed as a warrior (and if Myrcella had not introduced her as a lady perhaps Sansa would have thought her simply as a more feminine-faced soldier). But for all the brashness and lack of any kind of delicacy in her manner, the giant woman had taken Myrcella’s face in her hands so carefully, and kissed both her cheeks, looking at the princess with lively eyes that bore clear affection. And when both the dornish women had dragged the princess away speaking of surprises and a gift they had brought her, Sansa had let them go and went looking for her brother, believing (hoping) that he would want to hear that the Princess was well.

She found him in his tent… along with mother and Arya. All three of them were silently staring at each other and Sansa could tell simply by how mother was sitting at Arya’s side, holding her hand that she had taken Arya’s defences throughout all this. Sansa sighed. She could not bring herself to resent that. Arya may have been in the wrong but the moment she felt she had everyone against her she was liable to do something even stupider. Or at least, the Arya Sansa had known would behave that way. This Arya was foreign sometimes.

Sansa sat at her brother’s left and only then did his eyes leave Arya’s and came to rest on hers.

“The Princess is with Elia and Obara Sand of Dorne. She begged me to tell you that she is quite well, apologises for the lack of self-possession she displayed and for the inconvenience it caused, and thanks you for the care you showed her.”

Robb’s wince was a relief. Sansa was not sure whether her brother should trust the princess or not, but that he was the Robb she remembered, that he took no pleasure in someone’s pain and fear… yes, that was a relief indeed.

Sansa felt her brother take a deep breath (and didn’t miss her mother’s eyeroll either).

“Does the Princess wish for Dacey to be replaced with someone else?”

Sansa couldn’t help the small smile, though there was no humour in it. “No. On the contrary, when Dacey apologised for not being there to protect her, Myrcella was very firm in settling that there was nothing for her to apologise, and that she would have no other guard but Dacey herself.”

Robb frowned. “You think she was being sincere?”

Sansa thought on that carefully. “I think so, but even if not, I stand by what I said: if you put knights – or any man for that matter - to guard her she will not feel protected, she’ll feel threatened.”

 _As would I_. But Sansa did not say that. She doubted she even needed to say it aloud. The spark of dark anger in Robb’s eyes the first time she had suggested it had been enough to know that her brother already knew, with vagueness befitting the imagination, why Sansa would say such a thing.

“Very well.” Robb sighed and then looked at Arya again. “Tonight you will apologise to the princess.” He said then with a tone that let Sansa know this had been thoroughly discussed before. he sounded tired somewhat.

“I will _not_.” Arya said between gritted teeth and leaned a little forward. It was only mother’s grip around her shoulders that kept her seated.

“Arya…” Catelyn started gently, but Arya interrupted.

“I will _never_ apologise to a Lannister for anything. _Never_. I’d rather die first. And _you_!” Arya’s steel eyes found Sansa’s and held. “You, going about her, fretting like a mother hen.”

“Arya!”

Mother’s tone was harsh, but Arya’s anger was stronger. Her eyes were shiny and if Sansa hadn’t known better she would have thought her sister was three breaths away from tears.

“I can still hear you screaming at the steps of Baelor’s sept, you know. I’ve heard plenty of men die screaming and it was always with your voice they screamed. They crippled Bran, killed father _right in front of you!_ She is a _Lannister,_ and you act as if she’s your friend!”

Robb was about to speak, but Sansa stopped him with a hand on his forearm. The air in the tent was so tense that one could cut it with a knife if one wanted, but Sansa had eyes only for her sister.

“You were there?” she asked, slowly. They had never dared speak of his. Sansa saw Arya swallow thickly. The tension vibrated. It felt as if nobody was breathing.

“Yes.”

Sansa felt her heartbeat in her throat. “Did you… did…”

“No.” Arya said, sparing Sansa having to ask what she had meant to. The relief was so palpable in her that it was only then Sansa realized she had been barely breathing since her sister started speaking.

Sansa nodded.

“You want revenge. I can understand that.” and she could. Gods knew she could understand it even if she didn’t like it. “But taking it on Myrcella is not just wrong; it’s unjust. She is as blameless here as I was in the Red Keep.”

Arya scoffed, the distain a live, coiling thing in her, reflected in her eyes. Sansa couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, and it was that that surprised her sister most.

“You don’t care. I can understand that too. I thought I didn’t care either.” Every day, in a thousand different ways she had hated them, hated for years until she had grown so exhausted in it that she thought she had nothing but hatred to hold on to, when flinging herself down from the highest tower of that dreadful place seemed like the best escape. But on top of hating them, she had started to understand them. And with a little help from the shadows… she had survived them.

“When news of Jamie Lannister’s capture reached the Red Keep some ten months ago, the queen was furious. So she suggested to her son that they take retribution on the available Stark in court.” She could still see Cercei’s sneer, her monstrous son’s laughter still rang in her ears. “Joffrey had me kneel at the foot of the iron throne as the kingsguard tore my dress. ‘ _If you want your brother to hear, you must scream a little louder’_ he said, and had them beat at with the flat of their swords till my back bled. The throne room was full, the noblest people of King’s landing there… _nobody_ dared breathe a word of protest. Not even when that maggot pointed a crossbow at me and started firing.” She had just closed her eyes and prayed he struck true, just once, so that the pain could end. “He had no intention of killing me, but that didn’t really matter, I thought I was going to die that day.”

Her voice had been steady and flat throughout the entire time, but horror-struck faces stared back at her. Sansa noted the tears on her mother’s face, still in frozen shock. She saw the violence in Robb’s eyes like it was a storm bruin, but throughout the tale she had been careful to keep her hand on his arm, her thumb moving back and forth, reminding him of calmness. Arya was staring at her with the same intensity, but her expression was closed, guarded.

“When Myrcella was brought to court, it was her turn, because she had lived in Dorne for years and now Dorne was fighting the crown. Believe it or not, her punishments were no less severe than mine. And yet she was the only one that would ever dare speak in my defence, even when the most she could do was divert attention from me and to herself. It was more than anyone else ever did for me in that place.”

Sansa took a deep breath and stood up, hand folded in front of her, eyes never leaving her sister.

“What you did was a cruel prank that made that girl fear for her life. You did it because you could and because she was there, even though she had done nothing to deserve it - _that_ is why you’re going to apologise.” Sansa felt the words pour out of her, calm as still water even as her voice hardened with by the torrent of emotions in her breast. Arya was not looking at her, but Sansa knew she was listening to every word. That she had not interrupted yet was proof enough that some of it was getting through. “You’re going to do it in public, where everyone can see you, so that nobody has the lethal idea to do imitate you. And you are ever going to do such a thing again, because it would mean the end of a peace won with thousands of lives and neither your vengeance nor mine is worth that much. I am going to be Myrcella’s friend and you are going to leave her be, because anything less would make our father ashamed of us.”

Arya had the decency to flinch but she still wouldn’t look up to meet her eyes. “They would never show us the same fairness, and you know that better than I do. Why should I?” she murmured, her fingers worrying the hemline of her sleeve.

Sansa’s anger finally erupted to the surface, but she gripped it with her fingertips, breath after breath, until her emotions were within her grasp again. “Because we are _not_ Lannisters! We are Starks of Winterfell. That is reason enough.”

Arya got up and walked away but not before muttering an unwilling ‘Alright’ before she passed past the flaps of the tent. Sansa sighed, feeling exhaustion settle in her bones hat had no right of being there. The day had just started, it was not even midday yet… and yet she wished for nothing more than a bed in this moment. All the excitement that had started with the break of dawn had tired her out. She could only imagine how Myrcella must be feeling.

“Sansa…”

She looked around to her brother, only to be met with his pained expression. The guilt and pain she saw there was staggering for a moment an it took her a couple of blinks to understand what this was about.

“Oh Robb, don’t.” she put her hand on his cheek gently. She had wanted him to come save her for so long. At one point or another she had even resented him, hated as she had hated the whole world. But in that moment, she could feel nothing but love for him.

“I didn’t tell that pretty tale to make you feel guilty, brother. It’s in the past, and it’s going to stay there. I’m…I’m well now…” but even to her own ears that sounded uncertain, so she tried a simpler truth. “I’m going to be well.” And this time Sansa smiled and it was real. “I’m with my family again, the North is free and we are going home. Everything will be well.”

Her brother breathed deep and closed his eyes before he leaned down to kiss her brow (and her heart broke a little bit because that is what father used to do so very often and Sansa missed him with an ache that sometimes was a physical pain) But even in the middle of that emotional moment she could not miss the regret on Robb’s face, the darkening of his eyes as if he was steeling himself from a truth he did not want her to be burdened yet. Sansa had heard talk of other dangers coming from the north, but she knew little of it. Nobody did and Robb spoke of it to nobody but his most trusted.

 _All will be well_ , Sansa told herself. She told herself now what she used to tell herself all those days in the Red Keep for courage. _Winter is coming for us all, but I am a Stark. I carry the north in my breast and wherever I go, winter calls me home **[1]**. I’m not afraid._

 

[1]Whenever I go, winter calls me home’ – not mine, I found it written in a poster of Sansa that I found on the internet. I didn’t have defined authorship, but credit (and disclaimer) where it’s due.


	4. Sands of Dorne

_4\. Sands of Dorne_

_‘The words ‘I am’ are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to. The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you.’  
A L Kitselman_

 

It seemed funny to think of it now, but Myrcella had been terrified of the Sand Snakes once. Oh, they weren’t any less frightening now, but Myrcella was not so helpless as she’d once been. She’d had to live with them and be exposed to them quite a lot, and they had been instructed not to cause her harm but she soon learned that the Snakes had a loose interpretation of the concept of ‘harm’, and their own ways of putting commands to action. They had seemed so cruel to her at first and perhaps they even had been, but Myrcella had learned a great deal from them, even when she despised them; and learned even more, once she started to like them.

Perhaps she had not always been happy in Dorne, and sometimes it had been quite literally hell to live there (especially those couple of times when she had brushed against death and scented its shroud), but most of the time, she had been free as she never had been before, a difference Myrcella had appreciated fully only once she was sent back to King’s Landing. It had been a strange form of punishment to go back to being a _lady_ after having tasted the fierceness and seductive power of being only whatever you chose to be. Silk dresses had never felt more like irons.

Dorne had taught Myrcella many things, but the one she prized above all was the lesson of independence. Not the kind her mother so craved, the kind that was actually power and that Cercei fought tooth and nail to rip from the hands of men. Myrcella had learned a truer meaning of freedom: independence of the mind, of the heart, of the body and of her own will. She learned it from women that practiced it with every breath: the snakes and princess Arianne among them. Dornish women were taught obedience, respect and fulfilling the duty to their houses… and also that they were not second to their husbands, brothers, sons. They were only as good as their god given gifts allowed them to be. Myrcella had found that if you grew to believe that, to know it to be true in the depths of your heart and mind, then nobody could make you feel any less than what you were, not without your tacit permission[1].

As she rode side by side with Sansa and Dacey, Myrcella watched as further ahead in the column, Obara and Elia argued about something or other while Nymeria looked at them and rolled her eyes from time to time, exchanging a word or two with Tyene (the only one of the Snakes that wore a dress even now) who, as always, looked like the Maid made flesh. Myrcella was too far from them to hear what they spoke of, but couldn’t look at them without smiling.

She had been so happy when she saw Elia yesterday morning and her happiness only increased when Obara had found them. The tall woman had greeted her as loudly as ever, yelling across the camp _‘Well, well, if it isn’t the bastard princess herself!’_ as loudly as she always did, (but thankfully in dornish) and then embraced her hard enough to pop half her ribs, held her face between those wide, rough palms as she kissed her ruined cheek deliberately, right on her scar that marred it so, and then the other one.  

Obara, the warrior. Hard as rock and just as strong. Quick as a snake and with a temper that had always reminded Myrcella of her mother, though she had never said that out loud or there would have been blood. Once Myrcella had thought her the most dangerous woman to have ever breathed, but she learned soon enough that Obara was quite safe once you learned to be quick enough to duck the hilt of her spear. She liked to practice, she always said. ‘ _If you don’t teach yourself to fight back, you might end up being second princess to be raped and murdered someday_ ’. Obara had never minced her words and in time, Myrcella had learned to be grateful for it.

 _‘I’ve brought you back a gift’_ she’d said, just a few moments after their greeting and practically dragged her to the dornish part of the army. Myrcella’s heart had almost burst from happiness when she saw what Obara meant. She had brought back Sarabi, the Sand Steed that Myrcella had been gifted with years ago; the same that she had ridden across the Red Waste when the Darkstar had been chasing her down. Myrcella was convinced that that beautiful lean horse had saved her life that day – his swift legs were the reason she was escaped with only a scar on her cheek and a mangled ear. Had it not been for Sarabi, she would be missing a head too. The animal’s fine coat of gold shone with brilliant health even in the dim grey sky of the north and when Myrcella had petted his white mane and beautiful narrow head, he had huffed and nudged her shoulder gently, and she could swear he had recognised her and been as happy to see her as Myrcella had been to see him. She had hugged Obara again then, much to the uncomfortableness of the older woman, and thanked her over and over until Obara had pushed her away with a ‘ _Enough already_ ’ that was admittedly, spoken rather more softly than Obara had probably meant it to.

Lady Nym had greeted Myrcella as elegantly as always, giving her a kiss as light as a butterfly on each cheek. Tyene had embraced her with such grace that it made dancers look clumsy, and handed her a silken shawl that she had embroidered herself, she said, with a stag and a wolf, and the sun of Dorne uniting them. Irony was Tyene’s favourite weapon, and backed with those wide innocent eyes, she could look the picture of naivety if Myrcella hadn’t known better. Of course, the antidote to that was Elia and the way she rolled her eyes or snorted at it all, making Myrcella smile.

The Sand Snakes, Myrcella thought with a smile. Never had there been a more apt name.

As Myrcella looked them now, she realized that she saw home in Elia’s smile and Obara’s booming voice and perhaps that was why she was resting easy, why she felt so warm in their presence. They were something she knew and that she had missed. It was not about good and bad, it was about the familiar. She did not feel quite so alone anymore and the incident with the wolf seemed long ago even though it had happened only that morning. It became something that the Snakes had distracted her from (thankfully!); even Lady Nym and Tyene were a welcome sight, thought Myrcella had never been able to be truly close with either. And that was when it occurred to Myrcella that perhaps she had made her home in the sand and had not even realized until she was taken from there. What right had she had to feel so at home in Sunspear, nobody could possibly understand. Not many liked her there, and even fewer enjoyed her company. Most had delighted in trying to make her life harder with petty difficulties, and almost everyone had harboured her some resentment or another for imagined slights, or even real ones.

But she had had friends there as well, friends she had loved and who she believed had loved her back well enough to look for her after she was taken, friends who had missed her when she was gone and would have mourned her had she been dead. Few enough were these friends, Elia and Obara were the only ones Myrcella thought of as real, but that was no matter. Love was not a question of numbers. Love such as this that she felt was absolute: it either existed, or it did not. And when it _did_ …

“They are… very different from what I imagined them to be.”

Myrcella turns her head to Sansa, gives her a questioning look. “How did you imagine them?” She asks with a smile.

Sansa shrugs. “I’m not sure I imagined them at all, really. But they are so…”

Sansa lacks for a clear word and Myrcella feels her smile widen considerably. She could understand Sansa’s hesitation. It was very hard to find one single word for the Oberyn’s daughters. They are all so different from one another, and yet even those that know nothing of them could feel the string that ran invisible through those women, binding them together. Besides, it’s difficult to even pinpoint the true nature of each of the Sand siblings, since they never show the full of it. Except for Obara, who is blunt as the swing of a war-hammer in everything she does, the Snakes never like to show the whole of the truth about themselves, since all of them have a predilection for surprising people. What you see is never what you get, where they are concerned.

“They are one of a kind.” Myrcella says simply, and Sansa turns a contemplative eye to her.

“You were very happy to see them, weren’t you?”

Myrcella smiled and nodded.

“Especially Lady Obara. I never would have thought you to like her so much. She is very… well, she is rather rough. Not at all like you.”

Myrcella laughed, amused to no end by the hesitation in Sansa’s tone.

“Oh yes, she is all edges, but we get along well enough.” Myrcella responded, and her hand went to pat Sarabi’s neck softly without her even being aware of it. The action drew Sansa’s eye, and inevitably her curiosity as well. Being the lady that she was, Sansa did not ask, but Myrcella could see the interest in her eyes, so she indulged her.

“Sarabi was chosen from Lady Obara’s herd, and gifted to me on my twelfth nameday by Prince Trystane of Sunspear.” Myrcella said evenly, focusing only on the good, the happiness she’d felt back then.

Sansa’s reddish lips formed a small ‘ _Oh’_ Of understanding and she nodded. “He is a beautiful animal. Even I can see that.” She said then.

Myrcella smiled. “Yes he is. Obara was very kind to have brought him back to me. We’ve had all kinds of adventures, Sarabi and I.”

She’d have to take care with him, Myrcella thought as she watched Sarabi’s breath come out of his nose and turn to vapour from the cold. He was a Sand Steed, bred to survive the stifling hotness of the desert as well as the sharp cold of the mountains, but not even the harshest mountain-winter in Dorne could compare to the cold of the north. If he did not do well up where they were doing, Myrcella had already decided that she would send him back to Dorne with the Snakes. She wanted him with her, but she did not want him to suffer needlessly.

“Adventures? That sounds exiting.”

Sansa’s voice distracted Myrcella from her thoughts and she turned to the princess with wide eyes of surprise for a moment. She thought about riding harshly across the desert, death on her heel, thought about Sarabi’s pearly-white mane so soaked in her blood that that it had taken several washings for it to get out…

It took a couple of blinks for Myrcella to get hold of herself and smile. She knew it looked strained, as she knew that Sansa could probably tell by the sheer look on her face that those adventures had not been of the happy kind at all.

“Lady Tyene seems like a very sweet and gentle lady.” Sansa said, somewhat hastily, and Myrcella was against surprised by the princess’ perceptiveness. The diversion worked – her dark thoughts were banished, but only because she was amused at Sansa’s choice of distraction: if one wanted light-hearted, Tyene looked like the perfect choice, but few knew how that was part of the deception.

_Tyene, the sweet summer strawberry…_

“Yes, she seems that way, doesn’t she. Pure as the first snow of winter.” -while being as treacherous as the quicksands of Dorne. Sansa caught the irony in Myrcella’s voice and raised an eyebrow, begging for explanation.

Sansa leaned in close. “But _look_ at her. She seems so…”

Myrcella smiled, honest amusement in her face as she looked over at Sansa. “You underestimate her. Don’t. She is as quick and silent as a shadow and a master when it comes to poisons. You’d never even feel the prickle if she decides she wants you dead, but you’d still die.” Myrcella looked out into the horizon, thinking back to the heat of the desert and the dornish sun on her skin. “If you look into her eyes long enough, you’ll see the viper in her too.”

Sansa looked shocked for a short moment, and then pensive for several others. Myrcella could understand why. Looking at Tyene with her clear azure gown, so modest and simple, with her pale hair and clear eyes, it was so easy to mistake her for the most modest and gentle of maids. Myrcella had never known Tyene’s true nature despite the long years living with her. The only thing she did know for sure about the blonde viper was her father’s daughter and the most treacherous of the Snakes because she was the best liar.

“You… don’t like her, do you?” Sansa tried, looking at Myrcella long, trying no doubt to pick apart her thoughts.

“Oh, on the contrary, I like her very much.” Myrcella said with a brilliant smile that no doubt confused the northern princess. But then she decided that she would speak truthfully.

“She is not my favourite person and I certainly don’t know her well, but… she saved my life.” And Myrcella traced her scar, and watched understanding down in Sansa’s blue eyes. “She stitched me up, and took care of me. Made sure the wound did not get infected and that I lived through it. She was my healer for three weeks, hardly leaving my side. I owe her a great deal - and half my face as well, because had it not been for her, this scar would look much worse than it does now.”

Sansa nodded, and kept her silence for a long time, watching straight ahead as they rode. It was almost an hour or so later that the princess thought about continuing the conversation and Myrcella knew her well enough by now to understand that this was her way. Sansa’s mind was never quiet and even when she kept her peace, her mind picked apart any problem it faced carefully and in solitude. Perhaps it was the result of having only herself for a confidante for long years while she was kept in the Red Keep.

“Dorne must be so very different from the rest of the seven kingdoms.” Sansa said, and there was no judgment in her tone, only a strange contemplation.

“It is different is some ways and just the same in others. But women have more advantages there than they do anywhere else. They are not as free as they should like, but they are undoubtedly freer than in the rest of the seven kingdoms.” But then again it was also true that even in Dorne, the Sand daughters of Oberyn Martell were a rarity. “But the Snakes owe their way of life to their father: He wanted them to be able to take care of themselves and encouraged independence where other fathers teach obedience.”

“And you were raised with them.” Sansa observed in a friendly open-ended manner, looking at Myrcella in a curious way that made the princes smile.

Myrcella laughed, delighted.

“I’m not one of the Sand Snakes Sansa. But I learned much from them, that is true. They taught me how to survive the world.”

Sansa looked at her for a long moment, and Myrcella knew that something was turning behind those blue eyes. It was her turn to raise her brows in question.

“What is it?”

“I was just remembering how you looked when you came back to court.” Sansa said slowly, confirming Myrcella’s suspicion. Myrcella left the silence lay, waiting for what Sansa would chose to say. There were many ways one could describe her return to court, depending on what kind of eyes had witnessed it.

“You looked like nothing could touch you.” Sansa said, her eyes darkening for a fraction, her expression grave as she went through memories of the past. Her smile was small and thin but her eyes were so focused that Myrcella had to wonder how nobody had noticed the steel in this girl, her incredible grit. (perhaps that had been why Sansa always looked down, never meeting anyone’s eye, while she was in King’s Landing.) “Even when it was horrible, you still looked like you were above it all.”

 _That’s only pride, Sansa_ , Myrcella wanted to say. She had been stubborn because her life had been the only thing she had had to lose and her life was precisely what Joffrey would never take away from her. She had been so angry at him, at all of them. Angry enough to be reckless, thoughtless enough to fight back. It was sick and twisted, but after years and years of not seeing him and he not seeing her, it seemed that Joffrey could not look at her and see a sister anymore. It made her stomach roll whenever she thought of her parents in that light. She could never understand it, but she refused to judge her mother and father, even when she most resented them - the whole world did just fine in that without her. But thinking of Joffrey turning that way, having _those_ kind of thoughts about her and feeling somehow justified in having them, that unleashed nothing but violence in Myrcella. Violence and disgust at her brother and mother and father. It made her feel tainted to her bones, in a way that no scalding bath could ever cleanse. And they had made her that way. The two people that gave her life, gave her a curse to bear as well: a life borne from such twisted, selfish love could only be a half life - the world would see to that, and it had, repeatedly.

But this was too heavy a topic for this moment. And it always would be.

“I still think that Lady Tyene looks too delicate and pious to be truly dangerous.” Sansa said, instantly drawing Myrcella way from her dark thoughts – something for which the princess was immensely grateful, which was why she so readily took to the light tone Sansa had set and smiled at the Winter Princess.

“Oh that’s the beauty of it. Nobody expects her to pull out to dagger and slice their balls off. And she does it with such grace too.”

Sansa looked at her with wide eyes for a moment before she started to laugh, drawing heads their way. When Myrcella noticed that the King too had been watching, she looked away immediately, the smile feeling frozen on her lips.

ooo

Myrcella had been expecting the outburst. Obara was nothing if not aggressive and direct and Myrcella knew her friend too well not to notice the anger, the _fury_ , growing in those dark eyes of hers, swelling like a storm at every slight. And Myrcella knew that she was not angry at the men who disrespected her or muttered behind her back loud enough for any to hear. It was with Myrcella’s passiveness to all of it that Obara was furious. _‘Your ‘pretty princess’ face’_ she used to call it. _‘Do you think it will ever save you? Do you think the world will care you have a royal cunt when it tramples you?’_

Back then, Myrcella had not known there was more inside her than that, she had not had claws and sharp teeth to protect herself with. Now she did, but she held back. And that was what was driving Obara to a near rage that boiled so close to the surface Myrcella was wondering how Obara didn’t scald the people that passed her by. Admittedly, all those who had even an inkling of her lethal temper stayed well away, but even knowing how lethal Obara’s temper could be Myrcella didn’t shy from it; she would not be cowered because there was not even an ounce of shame inside her that Myrcella might wish to hide. She was perfectly aware of what she was doing, which was why she met the heat of that fire chin-up whenever Obara’s eyes clashed with hers and Myrcella warned the warrior woman silently to be still, to be quiet, to let it pass.

It had been three days since the incident with the wolf, Arya Stark had apologised stiffly in plain view of almost half the camp, the King had enquired after her health and Sansa divided her time between her family and Myrcella while Myrcella was always in Elia’s company and (now more rarely) Obara’s.

One night a faceless soldier had made a bawdy jape about a girl and a missing ear (a tired one, truthfully, it hadn’t even been that funny) and Obara’s eyes had burned her _. ‘Do something_!’ that look screamed. _‘_ Do _something, don’t stand there, useless. Slit their throats, cut their cocks, shove ‘em down their mouths till they choke on ‘em!’_. But Myrcella kept walking by, pretended not to hear, not to see, a smile on her face as she traded japes back and forth with Elia. Obara had walked off into the night without a word, fuming up like boiling water, that angry stride of hers setting her apart even here among men of war. She had gotten into a fight after, broke a few bones and a couple of noses. Myrcella had known that was not the end of it: Obara was not one to waste her energy on people who were not the target of her rage. And in this instance, the target was the mutilated princess that the soldiers made fun of.

The eruption came on a crisp morning when Myrcella was riding with Sansa and Elia, Dacey never too far behind them. Myrcella had been listening to Elia tell her about her sisters and how Dorea had all the makings of warrior, when Obara rode close to them so recklessly fast that it spooked their horses. By her side Dacey tensed immediately, but she didn’t draw steel and for that Myrcella was grateful.

“Why do you do this?” Obara asked trough gritted teeth, biting the words together like she wanted to rip the syllables to shreds. Thankful for small mercies, Myrcella was relieved that at least, Obara had chose to have this conversation in dornish. “ _Why_ do you not react to them.”

“Because I must show care in all I do here and tread lightly, at least for now.” _Until I know who I’m dealing with_.

Myrcella spoke calmly and for the same calmness that answered her, Obara became twice more enraged. Her stallion reacted, twisting his neck to the way Obara twisted the rains in her hands.

“Release the reins Obara, you’re hurting the poor beast.”

Obara’s sneer was painful to watch. “Oh you feel for the poor beast, but not for yourself? They _humiliate_ you, speak of you like some common whore with no honour and you walk on by, like a fool. You think your grace and charm will do you good here? You think they care about that horseshit?”

“They don’t. I know that, but I can’t just-”

Obara growled at her, barring teeth like they were daggers. “Then _why_? Why do you hide behind that ridiculous, _useless_ façade?” and she paced her horse forward, her black stallion’s neigh making Sarabi retreat a couple of paces. Myrcella held up her hand to stop Dacey from doing anything but form the corner of her eyes she could see that they were attracting too much attention, and her heart started fluttering behind the iron grip she held on her temper.

“Being the princess never did you much good in Dorne, it won’t work here among these northerners either. They will never respect you if you keep being so _weak_! They will only despise you more for it, just like I did.”

“Obara, stop this at once.” Elia’s voice came, the sternness in it very alike to Obara’s own, but Myrcella knew that would do no good.

“What would you have me do, Obara?” because this was the question Obara most wanted her to ask, so Myrcella gave in, if only so that she could be done with this as soon as she possibly could.

The moment the words left her lips, Obara’s feral grin stretched her face into a bloodthirsty expression that Myrcella knew well. “Show them you are fire and venom! That you’ll set their winter aflame! _Show them who you really are_!”

“I _can’t_.” and this time Myrcella’s steel was a match for Obara’s flame. “This is not Dorne and I cannot afford to think only as a warrior here.”

“I doubt they will hate you with any more passion than you were hated in Dorne.”

“I was nobody’s _wife_ in Dorne!” Myrcella snapped, unable to control her voice rising, even if it was just barely. She took a deep breath to even out her nerves and straightened a little more on Sarabi’s back. But not for a moment did she retreat her eyes from Obara’s and faced that scorching anger with her coolest determination. “Do you have any idea what he could do to me? If something about me, anything, offends him even more than my presence here already does? He is the _King_ , and he is to be my _husband_ … he could rape and torment me to his liking to the end of my days-” and there it was, the blow that drained even Obara’s gorgeous olive skin of colour, proof of how much of an animal she was being speaking of this, but Myrcella had to shock some sense into Obara soon or she would go on until it was too late.  “-and nobody would ever lift a finger to stop him. I am on my own here and I always will be, so don’t speak to me of weakness. This is not some pageant to be won, this is my life. Until I know how to tread around him, I will tread lightly and make my way with wits, and not with fire and steel.”

The silence that fell was gritting, it was a horrible thing because it stretched. Dacey looked at them, confusion awash on her face and Elia had gone as pale as death. Even Sansa seemed terribly tense as she watched between Obara and Myrcella like she expected one of them to jump on the other’s throat.

But Obara would do no such thing. As if it was a live animal that Obara carried around her back, Myrcella could see her temper receding, cooling.

“You fear him…” the words were strange coming from Obara’s lips, and Myrcella could imagine how she was struggling with hat idea – the words themselves came haltingly from her, as if she was testing their constitution on her tongue. Fearing a man for the simple sake that he was a man was incomprehensible to Obara, and rightly so, but Myrcella felt sure that her warrior friend was missing the point: she did not dread Robb Stark because he was a man, but because he was _King_ , and Kings often got it in their heads that there was nothing they could want that they could not have. Experience had taught Myrcella that that meant only woe for their wives…

“Well you’re wrong.” Obara said then, with much more conviction.

Myrcella felt the first signs of tiredness. Gods, but Obara could drain you of energy in five minutes flat. “Obara…”[A1] 

“I have fought and bled beside that man you will call husband and though he not Trystane, he is not Fat Robert either, and he sure as fuck is not your vicious cunt of a brother.”

 _No, he is Ned Stark’s son,_ Myrcella thought, _and I am Cercei Lannister’s daughter. An uglier match could not have been made even in the deepest pit of the seventh hell_.

“And believe me when I say, he will like you better when you show some spirit. Northerners are suspicious of too much charm, you ought to know that by now.”

 _I do know_ , she thought despite herself. But it was something else worrying her. Myrcella frowned, heartbeat clapping in her breast. She knew all too well that smile that was stretching Obara’s lips. It wasn’t the feral grin of death. This was worse.

 “Whatever you think you’re going to do, don’t do it.” She warned.

Obara leaned a bit forward. “And how do you propose to stop me?”

“Please don’t.”

But just when Myrcella expected Obara to say something else, she spurned her stallion and trotted away from her and towards the front of the column.

“Your grace!” Obara’s voice carried like a thunderclap in Myrcella’s ears and it sent Myrcella’s blood into ice that scratched at her veins. The King’s company had been so close too, close enough that Obara’s next good-humoured words carried to Myrcella’s ears and she thought her heart stopped truly this time. “Has anyone ever told you that the dornish can fly, your grace?”

_Gods, what is she doing?_

But the King turned towards Obara and there was an amused smile on his face, one that Myrcella had never seen before.

“Myrcella, what is the matter?” Sansa enquired, an edge to her voice that was no fear. It was anger. She was angry with Obara, of course she was. She could not know of course, the details of their conversation.

“Nothing. All is well.”

“Please Myrcella. You’ve turned so pale.”

“Have I?”

“Must be the strain of not giving in and throttling Obara when you had the chance Myr.” Elia put in with a shaky smile that Myrcella mirrored, if only to appease Sansa a little.

All the while not missing the conversation happening some yards away amidst jest and laughter. Prince Oberyn seemed to support his daughter and they all knew that once the red Viper wanted something there was little that could stand in his way except a natural disaster.

“What was she so angry about? I thought she would strike you.” Dacey asked, and Myrcella noticed that it was only now that the warrior Mormont decided it was safe enough to remove her hand from the hilt of her sword.

“Obara would never strike me, Lady Mormont.” Myrcella said and there was the kind of assuredness on her tone that left no room for doubt. Obara had never laid a hand on her outside the practice rig. “She was however very cross at me for my passivity to the various jests that the men see fit to pass around every once in a while. I assured her that none of it offended me. Soldiers have their own ways of diverting themselves.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dacey fidget a little with the reigns.

“Obara does not believe much in patience you see. She thinks it’s best to tackle problems head on.” Myrcella said with one of her usual smiles. It was an explanation that would satisfy those that did not know Obara very well, and it seemed to work. Sansa relaxed, Dacey straightened in her saddle.

“She does look like the type to prefer more… direct confrontations.” Sansa said then, if only to be polite. Elia covered for Myrcella’s silence by diving on a tale of Obara’s duel with some knight of the Red Mountains and diverting the attention away from Myrcella – who was too busy looking ahead at Obara and the King, hoping against hope that what she feared would not…

It was when Obara turned her triumphant smile to her that Myrcella knew she had been hoping in vain. Obara trotted her horse back and Myrcella inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“There are fields so vast beyond those hills over there, that they reach further than the eye can see. And I want to outrace the wind. What do you say?”

The challenge was there in those dark eyes and Myrcella cursed in her head. Of all the asinine things to concoct …

Why was it that Obara was one of the few people that were actually capable of appealing to Myrcella’s vanity in a way that she could not say no to? It was most troublesome, especially now. Especially when offered was the possibility of something Myrcella loved doing, and something she was so good at, after days and days of boredom and slow marching.

But she had cautioned herself towards patience…

Obara saw exactly what was the seed of her conflict.

“Don’t you trust me, Myr?” she asked softly, so softly that it shocked all those about her, with a small smile that made her harsh face look almost sweet.

_…he will like you better when you show some spirit._

“I do trust you.”

Obara’s grin was instantaneous. “Then trust me. Come.”

Obara spurred her stallion and Myrcella didn’t think about it anymore. She followed.

ooo

He saw them ride, dethatching themselves from the main column and towards the fields ahead. Saw that they had shed their cloaks and extra weight off the saddle, wrapped shawls around their noses and mouths so that the cold air of the north wouldn’t chill their lungs. They aligned side by side and then the real speed started to show, when they started to push their horses faster and faster and even as they rode away Robb still heard the sound of their laughter in his ears.

They were very strange, those women. Proud and defiant, but that did not mean Robb did not enjoy watching them ride downhill and then across the plains, pushing each other for a win. He could easily recognise Obara – she was the one that spurned her horse with a rod so hard that the animal would soon find himself a bloody side. ‘ _The dornish can fly, your grace. We ride the wind’_ she’d said, that cocksure grin on her face. And what could a man say to that?

Lady Tyene’s pale hair was easily recognisable even with that scarf around her head. But then he saw a second flash of gold, and no, it was not from one of the horse’s coat, it was the rider and that was when all lightness left him. He thought to himself ‘ _no it can’t be_ ’… but one look behind him and he saw Sansa standing alone, watching the race with fascination and a touch of fright and he knew that ‘ _yes, yes it is_ ’ even before Dacey met his eyes with an apology – she had been just coming to notify him it seemed.

Robb snapped his eyes towards the race, found that horse with a coat of pale gold and narrowed his gaze at it. She was down there in the vast plains, riding like a shade out of the gates of hell, and even catching up to Obara’s black stallion, the animals head to head until she managed to surpass it, and then gain and gain distance as she went, horse and rider a blur. He watched, and felt the prickle on anxiety in his breast. One tiny mistake, a heel not positioned well enough, a little shift, a misplaced rock, and she’d fall and break her neck and then it would be hell. Had she not been thinking about that when she decided that she wanted to show everyone the meaning of haste[2]? Irritation flared within him more strongly, but Robb controlled it. He was being unreasonable, that voice inside him whispered, one that usually sounded like his mother. _Have some sense Robb, she would not engage into such activity if she were not proficient at it_.

And she was, proficient at it that is. Oh hells, he might as well admit the full of it: the girl could be part horse for all the skill she had! And it was obvious she liked the speed and danger of it. Nobody quite sane would, but _she_ did… And there the surprise - not because she was capable of that kind of ability, but that she would _enjoy_ such a thing. The princess had not seemed to him like someone that would like the wind ruining her hair, or anything involving even minor perspiration. But then again, he had little to no idea what went on underneath that royal flesh of hers. She so rarely acted like a real person that one could be surprised the wind could move her hair out of place at all.

But he’d just been proven wrong after all. There was a person under there and he’d known that – found it out in a very unpleasant way just a few days ago when his carelessness brought her to inconsolable tears. The memory still made something in him shrink a tiny bit, but it was hard to concentrate on that when even from a distance her huge grin was visible, the colour on her cheeks high and some messy curls that had escaped her braid were framing her face like a wild halo. One look at her from head to foot and Robb found himself wondering how come he had never noticed that underneath that heavy fur-lined cloak, the princess of the Iron Throne dressed like a dornish rider, with their characteristically loose breeches tucked in thick high boots and long overcoat that split down the middle. Those were chinks in her armour, and from between them felt that he was looking at the girl he was to marry for the first time, instead of seeing a shade at some far shore, hidden away from him by politeness and manners.

Obara said something to her and she threw her head back and laughed – he heard it, they were getting closer; her laughter full and careless, it made her sound every bit as young as she was and completely at odds with her dignified bearing and composure. But Obara didn’t seem to appreciate the princes’ mirth (Robb could only presume it was at her own expense): she swung that spurning rod at the princesses head, perhaps a little too fast to be good-natured – no surprise there, Obara was no such thing – and instead of ducking her head, the Princess raised her hand and caught the blow full on her gloved palm, giving the rod a twist and a tug and pulled it out of the Snakes hand and tossed it somewhere out in the grass. That actually made Robb smile for a moment, despite the utter surprise he felt watching it. It was the kind of thing Arya would do. And that look on her face, the mischievous tilt of her smile, and the teasing light in her eyes…

“Congratulations princess.” He heard himself say even before he realized he’d made up his mind to speak. But he had, and the second he’d seen how happiness lit her up from within, he decided that he would not speak a single word of reprimand to her… at least not this time.

The princess’ smile fell a bit – not on her lips, but it was her eyes that instantly sobered as they always did when they fell on him - and Robb was disappointed to see it, but the glow of happiness did not entirely fade from her.

“Thank you, your grace.” She said simply as she fidgeted to get her hair unto some resemblance of order (and it didn’t escape his notice that she flattened her hair against that which was supposed to be her missing ear, so that there wouldn’t be even the chance of a glimpse). But she was still smiling and she still meant it. It was so different from those other smiles he’d seen on her face that it was a wonder to see.

“Yes, she won. So payment where its due Obara.” Lady Nym said as she drew closer, and even she seemed mused by the race. Obara grumbled but she still produced a sheathed blade from nowhere and before and before Robb could even catch the details of it she threw it – _threw it_! – at the princess, who to his relief, caught the thing easily.

“Thank you, my lady.” The princess said most courteously, but there was something there, a glint in her eye, that little curl of her lips that made the words into an instant joke.

Obara scowled. “Stop gloating quirt, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Ah, but you love it so.” And now the teasing in the princess’ voice was plain as day and Even Robb was smiling at Obara’s antics. “After all, you taught me how.”

The snakes chuckled and Obara herself rolled her eyes, before Robb felt them on his person, that calculating dark gaze always setting his teeth on edge as if it was an open challenge.

“Isn’t it common up here that when someone wins something, they get a crown of flowers or some such nonsense?”

Robb raised a single eyebrow at her but it was the Princess’ reaction that most amused him: she almost choked on her breath and covered it up with a cough, but it was plain that she’d rather laugh than hide it.

It was lady Tyene who kept her composure long enough to speak when the others were so busy trying not to laugh in Obara’s face. “Forgive her, your grace. Your northern air has played some strange trick on her brain and my sister seems to have forgotten her manners entirely.”

Elia snorted. “Or she would have, had she had any to begin with.” She muttered close to the princess who pursed her lips even more tightly and looked down.

“Oh to hell with the lot of ya.” Obara sneered, but without any real bite to it. She was almost ready to smile. “Except for you your grace, of course.”

“Of course.” Robb said laconically, but didn’t keep the amusement off his face

He joined his guard and the Snakes joined the second column where they had been before, their jesting getting more rowdy and free as Robb trotted his horse away from them. But when he turned out of impulse, to get a last look at the princess, it was not the back of her golden head he found, but her green eyes instead, staring back into his as if she’d had the same thought. and this time, for the very first time, there was the shadow of a smile on her lips as she looked at him and had he not know better, he would have said that the expression was mirrored in his own face before he turned his head away.

ooo

“I _told_ you! Didn’t I tell you?”

“Alright, alright, you told me. What do you want, a shrine in your honour?” but despite the quick reply, Myrcella was smiling from ear to ear, taking care not to meet anyone’s eye and instead fixing her gaze on Sarabi’s mane. He’d almost smiled at her. It was so faint that had she not been paying attention, she would have missed it, but she was all too familiar with the hard, unyielding expression of his face to ever miss it when it softened even a little bit.

“I’ll give him a day at most, before he comes to seek you out.” Obara said proudly, as if the whole thing was her own concoction… which it was, admittedly, in the ways that mattered. Had it been up to her, Myrcella would have never given such a spectacle of herself.

“I would show care though, Myr.” Lady Nym said in her deep voice that always managed to sound beckoning even to Myrcella’s ears. She turned to look Nymeria in the face and found that those rich smoky-grey eyes of hers were fixed and studying her with careful intent. “Do not play it too much like a game; the King has a very keen eye for deception and if you try to play him, he will sense it – and he won’t thank you for it.”

Myrcella shook her head. “I’m not trying to seduce him or fool him into thinking me something I’m not. I just…” Myrcella took a deep breath and reordered her thoughts. “It would be nice to know him, even a little. Have a conversation with him. And perhaps on my wedding night, I won’t feel as if I’m letting a stranger in my bed.”

The silence lingered or a few moments, until Obara broke it. “Not to be married to a stranger is the highest of happiness you can hope for…” she said, as if testing the admission, and Myrcella gave her a resigned look. Obara sighed, shaking her head. “Fuck, but I’m glad I’m a bastard and nobody claims otherwise. I don’t think I ever thanked my father for that one.”

Myrcella laughed and the girls joined in. But it was not a laugh with a light heart. Immediately her brain went into that direction, the one that for pain, she never allowed herself fully to explore. But her thoughts were split open when Obara turned to her, looking at her fiercely and full of purpose, a grin stretching her full lips and giving her the looks of a maniac if only for a moment.

“I can’t wait until you have your first child. I want to see you as a mother.” She said, stunning Myrcella and even her sisters who fancied themselves used to her abruptness. Obara’s grin turned even more wicked. “Somehow I can’t imagine you as anything less than feral for your children. Motherhood will suit you beautifully.”

And just that was all she said before she spurned her horse forward and tracked away in a gallop, leaving Myrcella wondering how in the seven hells she could respond to someone whose thoughts followed patters that no live being could track.

“You know, I’ve always thought that too much sun on the head was the cause of these kinds of declarations, but now I know the truth: she’s just plain, old-fashioned mad.”

Myrcella shared a look with Elia that managed to be serious only for half a moment, before both burst out laughing.

ooo

In the end, she didn’t have to wait that long to speak with the King, for he came to find her the very next day.

It was barely even dawn, the sky a pale, unwilling grey as the sun tried to fill the world with daylight even through the stubborn clouds. As was her way, Myrcella had been up the very moment the chill of a new day had settled. She had dressed quietly and snuck out of her tent to where the horses were kept, brush in hand, and dry apples and a couple of carrots in the pockets of her cloak. Sarabi neighed when he caught sight of her shape and she presented him with her offers to keep him quiet. With an ungloved hand she petted him long beautiful face, humming under her breath and speaking to him in whispers about nothing in particular as she brushed him down. The repetitive motion calmed her, always had, and the feel of Sarabi’s smooth coat, the warmth of him alive under her hands had always reassured her. She liked taking care of him, liked knowing that whatever being belonged to her was loved and taken care of.

But when Sarabi neighed and shook his head, hitting the ground with his hooves to get her attention, Myrcella knew that she was no longer alone. She spun fast, immediately tense, but then she found herself face to face with the King in the North and for a moment, blankness reigned in her mind. Until she willed her limbs to loosen and her knees to bend so that she could courtesy in front of him.

“Your grace, good morning.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment and under his stare she felt the cold even more than before. He was such a hard man that it was difficult to connect to him the image she had of the boy waiting with his family in Winterfell’s courtyard. When he did speak, he didn’t bother at all with the pleasantries though.

“It’s barely morning yet. Are you always such an early riser?”

Myrcella was discomfited by his so familiar approach, but only for a moment. She was nothing if not adaptable.

“Yes, I am.” She said… and then thought about adding something more, something more personal that would not sound as if it could have come from anyone’s lips. “I like the quiet of the early hours.”

His face seemed to soften a little, as he considered that, and he stepped closer. Myrcella put her hand on Sarabi’s neck to calm him, knowing he would not welcome the King’s closeness.

“I imagine the Red Keep does not offer much of quietness, you have to get it where you can.”

Myrcella blinked once, stunned. “Y-yes that was…” that was what had always driven her to rise with the very first light and walk about the keep when silence was at its best – it had been game she had played as a child. And in Sunspear had been the same, though not a game anymore. “I used to rise early and walk the halls of the main keep before anyone else got about. It felt like an adventure.”

And how silly it must sound to him now! Why on earth she had said such a  thing… perhaps it had been nerves.

“I have never been too fond of early mornings.” He admitted then, one corner of his lips curling upwards in a small smile that softened his features so astonishingly that Myrcella could not help but look at him full in the face for a few moments… and then immediately look down, having caught herself staring. The silence between them would have stretched farther had Sarabi not huffed and shaken his head, making it seem as if he was ready to trample on the King at any moment. Myrcella put both hands on his neck and tried to soothe him, since she could not very well tell the King that he needed to step away.

“He does not like strangers, does he?” he King asked, having stepped away out of his own volition, something for which Myrcella was thankful for. But then she caught the humorous note in his voice and decided to tempt fate.

“Perhaps he can smell your wolf on you.” She said with a small smile… and to her immense relief, the lopsided approximation of a smile on the King’s face widened a fraction.

“Yes, perhaps.” And then, fixing his ice-blue eyes on her, he asked her without much preamble. “Would you walk with me, Princess?”

Myrcella was caught so off guard that she might as well have tripped over is words. She needed to relax and find her centre again, but no matter how hard she tried it seemed that it took the King no effort at all to push her out of balance every time. It was with a strange sense of unease with herself, that Myrcella realized that she felt so ill at ease because even the few words they had exchanged so far had felt a little looser, not quite so ensnared by the bounds of propriety and manners that required her to have a twenty-word vocabulary.

Myrcella realized that, a long moment later, she had yet to answer to him and she felt her cheeks burn with a blush that was surely heating them even in this cold, as the words stumbled out f her mouth, a little too fast for them not to betray her nerves.

“Yes, of course, your grace.”

She took his arm and he directed them through the woods near their encampment, his guards following from afar. Though she had imagined this moment, hoped for a chance to get a better feel of who this man was, Myrcella had no idea how to speak to him. her mind felt numb as it rarely had before. Had it been anyone else, she would have known perhaps what to say, or maybe she would not have been so unsure, but this was not just anyone. This was the man that she was supposed to marry and he was the first man that she found herself afraid of after so much time. It had been years since she was a child and the last man she feared was Joffrey. She did not fear him anymore. She had not feared the Darkstar, not even when he slashed her. She had had no time for fear then, only for life and she had fought for it with teeth and nails and rage.

But here she was, with a man that seemed as cold and hard as the lands he was from, and he frightened her, not because he was scary, but because life with him sounded like a barren wasteland - and that was where her fear sparked. She did not want to become her mother, that more than anything was the heart of her dread.

But she reminded herself that she had a little hope. Just a little, a ghost of a smile.

“Are you in the habit of grooming your horse yourself?”

His voice startled her, so long had they been quiet. She had not even seen where he was taking her, so engrossed she had been in her own thoughts. His question felt random, as if he had been trying to find one that would do and finally given up on the obvious, but Myrcella was glad for his choice. Sarabi was a good topic, she could speak of him however much the King wished.

“I… I like taking care of him. He is very well-behaved with me, and I think he likes the sound of my voice.”

“Yes, I imagine he would.”

Myrcella tried not to look up at him as he said that, it would have been too obvious. But she so wanted to know what he meant by that…

But then again, did it matter?

“Do you always speak to him in dornish?” and then he looked down at her, a frown on his face, one of uncertainty “That was dornish you were speaking, wasn’t it?”

Myrcella nodded. “Yes. He is used to taking commands in that language and I doubt he would understand them in the common tongue.”

“And the speed he is capable of is remarkable. I have never seen a horse ride so fast. From a distance you were both a blur.” He stopped and Myrcella felt his eyes on her, so she looked up to meet them… and found that his scrutiny, even when it was not as coldly appraising as it had been before, was still just as uncomfortable. She was not used to being stared at so boldly and the intensity in his eyes made her skin itch with unease. But she did not look away.

Perhaps even something as innocuous-sounding as horses was not a quiet topic to discuss…

“My compliments princess, for your skill with him.”

Myrcella found it hard to swallow. “Thank you, your grace.”

There was something in his eyes then, something that made her think he was about to tease her, but it seemed such an impossibility…

“I doubt you learned to ride like that in the Red Keep.”

Myrcella snorted softly before she could catch herself and instantly she felt the heat of embarrassment warm her cheeks… again.

Was she to be perpetually red-faced then?

“Forgive me. No I did not.” Her mother would truly start spouting wildfire if she ever learned that Myrcella pushed her horse faster than a light trot. “Obara and Elia taught me how to ride desert horses. They are both wonderful horsewomen, much better than I ever will be.”

“And yet you won the race yesterday.”

“I did, but that is because Sarabi is the fastest horse most have ever seen. I take little credit, just that I am able not to get in his way.” Myrcella was quick to explain.

“Sarabi?”

“Yes, that is the name I have given him.” and then, after remembering that he could not possibly know, she explained. “It means Dawn.”

She saw him nod and then a strange expression came on his face, but she did to know how to read it, nor could she, since she could not very well study him for as long as she liked. Keeping her eyes head seemed a safer option.

“I forget, must I present you with a gift as well for your winning, as Obara suggested?”

Myrcella was too horrified to catch the teasing in his tone.

“Of course not! She was speaking in jest, your grace. I would never presume…”

But then, as the words left her lips she caught his expression and realized he was speaking lightly, even though his tone did not give to it. It was in his eyes, Myrcella was surprised to find, that most of his humour concentrated. And she would gladly admit that whenever he made an effort, he did not seem to her quite so dour as he first had, and in those occasions, his features reminded her more of Sansa and he did not seem quite so much like the shade of Eddard Stark only with different colouring.

“I have a feeling Obara Sand doesn’t know how to jest, princess.” The King suggested. This time Myrcella knew enough to keep her tone light.

“Oh she does! It’s just that her japes are never particularly funny.”

The King hummed. “Yes, more on the barbed side. Obara’s sense of humour matches Obara herself, I suppose.”

Myrcella felt her smile widen. “Indeed.”

“You are close, are you not?”

Myrcella shot him a questioning glance. “With Obara?”

The king only nodded.

“Yes we are. Most find it strange, but it’s true.”

“I cannot seem to be able to picture the circumstances that would allow it.” he said, so honestly that Myrcella had to smile, even though she did so with sadness – one that was easily overwhelmed by the gladness she felt in this moment for this easy conversation.

“The circumstances were drastic, I admit, but I am glad they made us friends. Obara is the very best of friends to have.”

Silence fell again, but this time it did not stretch as long.

“Did you learn to speak dornish while you were in Sunspear? Or was it before that?”

Myrcella sighed internally in relief. Another safe topic! The King seemed to be much more proficient at delicacy than she had first given him credit for. She was not foolish enough to think that these choices of discourse were random, and she was thankful for his consideration.

“I learned when I was in Dorne.” Learning the language of the dornishmen had been the only way to understand anything since all behaved as if the common tongue offended them – at least around her. Without meaning to, Myrcella was reminded of Trystane and how he had sat for hours on end with her in the Watergardens, or in the pools of Sunspear, and taught her how to speak the foreign language himself, laughing when she got the words wrong, but never ill-naturedly. That was how their friendship had started. Slow and warm and full of laughter… and as she thought of it now, and of him, the sadness in her breast became a gaping wound. “I suppose it’s not too bold to admit that nobody in the Red Keep considered learning dornish a priority.”

“No, not bold. Honest though. What was that other language you were speaking last night with lady Nymeria?"

He had heard them? Myrcella had felt him watching but had not turned for a moment, not wanting to meet his eyes. But now it was different, and now she wanted to see his meaning. Myrcella looked up to search his face and found true curiosity in his eyes, giving them a different light, a softer edge. It flickered in his expression, as if he were unsure perhaps, and it was only now that it occurred her that he might be as doubtful about her as she was about him.

"Lady Nym's mother is a noblewoman of Volantis, they speak valyrian there. I learned some when I was a child. My septa seemed to be under the conviction that learning to recite poetry in valyrian was a skill a lady could not live without.”

Myrcella thought she covered her real feelings on the matter quite carefully. Her tone had been as blank as it could have without giving away rudeness, but apparently, it was not enough to fool him. He chuckled, and the surprising warmth of it made Myrcella look up at him, at the expression on his face as he stared ahead and then turned to looked at her.

“I take it that you did not agree then?”

“I… it was lovely, of course, but… I have always enjoyed reading about history better. Poetry always seemed to me too much like play-pretend.” Whereas history of war and battles and duels were much more real, and felt more exiting. Tommen always loved hearing about them. He wanted to be a knight, like uncle Jamie. Of course, Myrcella had never seen a battle in her life, but she had seen the remants of it, and it had been nothing the books had ever mentioned.

“Sansa always loved reading us poetry. And Arya would rather _do_ battle than read about it. You seem to have unique preferences, princess. At least they seem so to me. But then again, I’ve never met a princess before.”

Myrcella didn’t know what to say to that – didn’t even fully understand what he meant with it - so she kept her peace.

“So, you like riding, you like history and you like languages.” He said then, and there was something very open ended about that observation, as if he expected her to say something.

Was that amusement in his eyes?

"I like learning new things." Myrcella said tentatively. "My uncle Tyrion always said that the greatest freedom was that of the mind, because it’s the only thing nobody can take away from you."

The silence that greeted her words made her look at him again, and that was when she caught her mistake. She has spoken too rashly it seemed and had undone that lightness between them that had been so pleasant with the strike of one careless word. Any mention of her family was forbidden, because it brought such a hard look on his face that she should be very sorry to see it again. But apologizing for it would be worse, Myrcella suspected.

"I suppose your uncle is right. Everything else is easily forfeited." The King said slowly and Myrcella understood, once silence came again, that the topic was closed and that he was not going to make mention of her uncle again. She supped he saw it as a great favour that he had overlooked her slip of the tongue. Myrcella tried not to sigh. To live among the northerners, she would have to become a different person, but she could not bleed out the blood than flowed in her veins, nor could she change her appearance to please them, or her heritage. She could not be who she was not. And she would forever be a reminded of death to them...

It was unfair. But then again, life rarely was any different.

"I don’t believe I properly apologised for what happened with my sister’s wolf." The King said quite suddenly and Myrcella felt him turn to look at her, so she made herself do the same. The fierceness in his eyes made her stager but her body immediately straightened as she faced it, a natural reaction: whenever she felt threatened she immediately hardened against it.

"I am sorry for my sister. She had to travel in the wild for long before she found her way into our family again, and has seen more horror than most grown men do. She will not be easy to accept you here, but she will never do what she did again, that is promise." And now his eyes smouldered "Whatever has happened between our families is no fault of yours, princess, and you are not going to be harmed, neither by me nor by my men."

Myrcella found that she had to remind herself to keep breathing. This was too much honesty, more than she had ever expected and she felt that every word was heavy between them, as heavy as the previous had been light and airy. She swallowed and took a few breaths before opening her mouth to speak. What should she say? Was there even a right way to answer this? Was there even the need for an answer?

"Thank you, your grace. I am grateful for your generosity." and she was, truly. "It is uncommon among men." And therefore unexpected. But Myrcella knew better than to trust words of men in power. Words are wind, they are lies, even Robb Stark's words, though he spoke them as if they were the truths of all time.

"I'm not your brother." He said then, and the statement caused a spear of fright to pass straight through her heart. Apparently he had sensed her hesitation as if he really was a wolf and could snatch the scent of her emotions right out of the air. His keen perception only aided to make her more weary of him: she did not want to be so transparent, not to anyone, and most definitely not to him. She was sure her eyes were huge as she looked at him, and though he did not look as fierce now as he had a moment ago, his expression was still peculiar: both intense and tempered by something akin to sympathy.

"I'll never do to you what he did to my sister just because I can. I wouldn’t even if you were less deserving of respect than you so obviously are."

Myrcella was silent and so still that she could have been made of rock. What had Sansa told him, she wondered, the question echoing in the silence of her head like a scream, her mind dashing from one memory to another, frantically searching.

His voice was calm, soothing even, when he spoke again.

"Don't look so agitated princess. My sister has told me very little of her time in King's Landing, but I’m not blind nor am I a halfwit." And now they were walking again, or rather, he walked and she had to follow because her arm was still around his elbow. "I recognise the mark of cruelty on another human, and I am able to see it in my sister's eyes... just as I see it in yours."

Myrcella’s steps faltered and without meaning to, her hand clenched on his sleeve and she regretted it, because the King no doubt felt that. She didn’t know if she should be offended, or angered at his presumption, of thankful for the gentleness of his tone all of a sudden. She was confused and felt out of her depth, throughout all of that, Myrcella knew one thing for certain: she did not want anyone's pity, but less his.

"There is a saying in Dorne." Myrcella spoke carefully when silence stretched. "What does not kill you only makes you stronger."

"Aye, I can see that." he said and there was even the trace of humour in his voice. "And I remember the way you stood so tall and stared down a wolf the size of a small horse with blood still dripping from his fangs."

Had he been making fun of her, she would have known… but he was not. There was no trace of humour in his voice now. Perhaps had he known how she had been dying inside as she looked at that beast, he would have laughed at thinking her so very brave. She had though she was staring her death in the face.

"I wanted to show you something, once we were far enough from the encampment. Will you allow me?"

She looked at him and he really seemed to be asking for her permission. If only for that – that he asked – she gave her consent, and felt that he let go of her arm and moved to stand in front of her.

"I think it’s appropriate to introduce you two, properly this time." And he looked over her shoulder. She knew without turning what was standing behind her. Myrcella closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling every muscle in her body tense.

"No, don’t be afraid. I didn’t call him to frighten you." the King said, quickly this time, as if he was explaining. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm carefully… surprisingly gentle. More so than she had hoped.

"He is not wild like some believe. He won't harm you, I promise. Look." and he took off a thick glove and extended a hand forward. Myrcella saw his wolf come to him, huge and grey, with eyes the colour of golden stones. The direwolf came close, so close that if she could have, Myrcella would have stepped back. But then the beast bowed his giant head, letting himself be petted like he was just another dog. Myrcella felt a shudder shake her frame and then, a moment later, she felt something else: the unmistakable feeling of the King's arm around her shoulders holding her in place gently. The weight of him was felt much more keenly because it felt like he was trapping her, and yet, his hold was barely there.

… it was _reassurance_ , Myrcella thought, not restrain. And the heat coming from underneath his heavy cloak was almost a tangible invitation to step closer to him.

"Offer him your hand, let him smell you. A token of friendship, if you will." he said when she looked up at him, taking deep breaths through her mouth because her lungs suddenly had to work double time for air. But she did as she was told nonetheless. She took off her glove and extended her hand trying to move slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle the beast.

 _'Oh gods...'_ was her last though when she felt the warm and wet snout of the wolf on her palm. The direwolf picked her scent and then started sniffing her pulse, and then under her sleeve where it ticked… and Myrcella was transfixed. It was only when she heard the King’s chuckle so close that she remembered... between a moment and the next, the terror had eased. It helped that all her extremities were still attached to her body, but she knew that she owed her unexpected resilience to the fact that the owner of this creature that seemed like a monster from old tales, was still right there with her, his arm still around her shoulders an anchor of reality and sense (perhaps she was simply confused, not knowing which beast was more dangerous, the direwolf or its owner). She doubted she would have been so steady on her feet had she been alone.

"Is it true what they say-" Myrcella asked in a  whisper as the direwolf bowed his head and allowed her to touch him between the ears, feeling the coarse fur against her palm, between her fingers and the softer fur underneath. "-that you and your sisters and brothers have a bond with your wolves, that they are to you what dragons were to the Targaryens?"

She had heard more than that; she had heard that the Starks were wargs, skinchangers. But she thought that only rumour of men that adored and feared their commander, wanting to make him more than a brilliant general or even  a King; they wanted their leader to be something fearsome straight out of a dark tale.

The King smiled in a way that Myrcella could not read well; his smile never seemed to reach his eyes for some reason, and even now she thought it was not sincere, but then again for all she knew – which was little – this was the way he always smiled.

"I don’t know about the Targaryens, but Greywind and I are friends. I know that he protects my life and that he is loyal. And I know that he will protect you if I ask him to, so you don’t need to fear him."

Myrcella frowned without meaning to, and she was sure that he had caught her expression before she could smooth it away.

"He has that kind of intelligence?" she asked then, giving her expression a real reason for him to contemplate, as he wolf drew back and gave her a lick on her palm, making her jump, before he trotted away from view into the woods.

"Sometimes I think he's smarter than most of my commanders." The King said with a curl on one side of his lips. But then he looked at her seriously. "He has instinct, and its infallible. And he has never harmed anyone that did not have ill intentions towards me."

Myrcella felt the beginning of a joke on the tip of her tongue but she held it back. He caught it however, and his smile was one of curiosity this time.

"What?" he asked, and Myrcella wondered when she had become so transparent. Perhaps it was nerves. Perhaps it was because she might concede to being transparent for him, as long as he was willing to make the same concession.

… as long as he was willing.

"I was wondering, if you and I were at some point to have a disagreement, would your direwolf attack me too?" She asked, smiling only barely, enough to make the joke obvious.

The humour sparked in his eyes, though his smile was faint. "I suppose that depends on whether or not you have an intent to kill me." and the way he says it makes it sound like a joke, though for a moment she tensed. But since he was so relaxed, Myrcella understood this was no trap, but only a conversation, as it had been when this walk first started. Such a revolutionary concept, that… but it should not have been. After all, conversing with him about safe topics had not been as painful as she had first thought it would be.

But she could be sure of nothing with this man. Myrcella had never felt quite so much like a blind woman walking towards a cliff’s edge than she did in her dealings with this King. That was however, a contemplation for another time.

"When one of my men once drew steel on me, Greywind took off two of his fingers."

Myrcella blinked and her jaw slackened. "That story is true?" she asked before she could stop herself. She knew of the one they called the Greatjon (apt name, she thought, he was almost as big as the Mountain, though hardly as alarming) and how the direwolf had eaten his fingers. The King's amusement only grew at her wide eyed stare, as he offered his arm to her again.

"Yes." he said simply, though the corner of his lips was twitching upwards.

"Is it true that the Greatjon started laughing afterwards?" because she could not help it, she had always been curious and as of now, the King didn’t seems as cold and hard as he always did, so she could dare a few questions.

"Yes he did."

Myrcella couldn’t  help the short incredulous laugh that escaped her lips, even though she must have looked like a child to him then. Such strange men, she thought… but not without fascination. These were a rough people, the one she was marrying into; no less exotic and foreign than she had once found the dornish and their unique ways. But she had adapted quickly. She had a talent for that: she survived beautifully anywhere.

She would survive the North as well, Myrcella promised herself. She was after all, for all the good and bad, the daughter of Cercei and Jamie Lannister, wasn't she? The thought was a careless one, almost a private jape only meant for her own self, but when Myrcella found no answer in herself to that, she staggered. Even if there was a daughter of Cercei and Jamie Lannister, who was that person? Myrcella had no answer. She didn’t want to. The whole world may sneer at her all they liked, but in her own mind she was free. So she turned to what she had learned once she been forced to find out who the stranger that inhabited her skin was; she turned to the girl she had grown into in Dorne: little bastard lioness, Obara always joked. The name fit her better than all the ones before it though. _That_ was who she was. In that she recognised herself more than in strings of names that had never belonged to her anyway. She was Myrcella Sand, Myrcella Hill, Myrcella, _period_. She had once been 'Myr' for Trystane and 'Sand Lion' for Arianne’s amusement as well as many other, worse names. She would be the northerners Bastard Queen soon enough. It didn’t change a thing inside her anyway.

ooo

Sansa woke feeling very little rested these days, but as soon as she opened her eyes to see her mother’s red hair or her sister’s unruly mop, happiness always suffused  her in great waves. This morning she opened her eyes to find Arya, sprawled on her back sleeping with her mouth open and her hair in such a wild disarray that it looked like an animal had taken residence atop her sisters head. Sansa Smiled, her heart aching with how happy she felt. She would have reached out and touched her sisters face, but then Arya would wake and she was as untreatable as a bear out of hibernation in the morning. So instead Sansa got up and dressed as silently as possible.

As always Myrcella's bedroll was empty and Sansa was not surprised. Instead she went out looking for her. What she found, was her mother staring ahead with a very strange expression on her face... one that Sansa did not particularly like. It seemed as if her mother was frozen in place, her face a mask of stone. But before Sansa could ask what was wrong, before she even turned to follow her mother's gaze, she heard a sound that, despite all this time, was as surprising to her as the first time she had heard it, so rare was Myrcella's laugh. Or at least, it was rare that it was honest and free of that sharp mocking edge that she had dared use in the Red Keep from time to time.

Sansa turned immediately and saw her brother walk alongside the princess, her arm tucked in his elbow and though they were keeping a very respectable distance from each other and there were Robb's guards behind them, they seemed so… Sansa smiled widely, so much so that she felt her cheeks ache. They seemed almost _at ease_ with each other. She noticed the expression on Myrcella's face then, the laugher that started in her so vivid green eyes but did not burst forth as it had before, but rather a very real smile – of the kind that overwhelmed her face and made the distortion of that scar almost invisible. But there was such lively mischief in Myrcella’s eyes that Sansa knew without a doubt that there was a great deal about whatever Robb was saying to her that amused the golden princess. As she watched them, Sansa hoped that Robb had gotten to experience that wicked way Myrcella sometimes liked to tease with, one that instantly exposed her quick wit and that more often than not reminded Sansa of Lord Tyrion's way of jesting: sharp and funny.

Myrcella looked at her brother then, and her eyes didn’t lose their spark as they always did, she didn’t retreat into a pensive place inside herself. Instead she smiled and spoke to him – and by bow the two of them were close enough that Sansa got to hear what the princess said.

“I am sorry to disappoint, your grace, but the truth is that women like silent men better only because it’s easier to pretend they're listening.” And her voice was light and warm, dancing with laughter when she spoke, and not a trace of that sticky, honey-sweet charm that she put on like a dress whenever she was acting the princess.

And when Robb laughed, more easily than Sansa had heard him in a long while, that Sansa felt the spark of hope in her breast; a hope that, perhaps there was more than a tiny chance that her brother and Myrcella found something like happiness in their union. And she wanted that for them both, but especially so for her brother. Sansa wished peace and happiness for all her family, but it was Robb leading them now and the weight of all that responsibility had turned him so grave and serious… just like father had been. Seeing him so at ease with the princess gave Sansa a fierce sense of elation: no, her brother had not forgotten how to smile, and this time, it did reach his eyes.

But her joy evaporated a little when she turned around and saw that her mother’s gaze was still fixed on her brother and Myrcella and there was no sign of the hope and elation that Sansa was feeling in her mother’s face. The hard expression etched into her features had scarcely changed from before, and as soon as she saw that, Sansa felt something quicken in her breast. It reminded her that there are some wounds that never heal, and her mother had never been a woman to easily forgive.

 

 

[1] Eleanor Roosevelt said something like that, a quote that I was inspired by here.

[2]Lord of the rings – The two towers (movie); Gandalf’s line


	5. Small sidenote

_o_

_**Small Sidenote** … (a scene i wrote and then cut out because it didnt fit in any of the chapters from before, but i am leaving it here, as a missing scene, if you like)_

_o_

_The hard expression etched into her mother's features had scarcely changed, and as soon as she saw that, Sansa felt something quicken in her breast. It reminded her that there are some wounds that never heal, and her mother had never been a woman to easily forgive._

Sansa had grown up with the proof of that before her very eyes: Jon Snow… Her bastard brother, once. Half-brother, Sansa used to call him.

Jon had not had anything to do with father's infidelity; the only thing he could have been begrudged was his life and even so, Catelyn Tully, her beloved, fierce mother had ever treated him with a coldness to rival the deepest heart of winter. She had forgiven father, but not Jon - even though Jon was the blameless one. Sansa did not care for judging her mother's imperfections – we are all human and we all must have faults, she thought, and compared to what other faults she had found in other people, her mother's seems so utterly inconsequential sometimes that it was hard to resent her for them. But this time, Sansa had the very strong suspicion that Jon's case was the rule and not the exception when it came to Catelyn Tully's vision of justice, blame and forgiveness. Which made it very likely that, for Myrcella, it would most probably go the way it had gone for Jon, where her mother was concerned. Nevermind that Myrcella had no fault in anything that had befallen the Starks, Sansa still doubted that her mother would ever look at her with anything resembling worth. She could not, for a thousand and one reasons - just as Arya could not. People were quick to point out how very much like a Stark her little sister looked, but in her stubbornness, Arya was very much their mother.

But the princess and her brother were almost in their midst now, and their words drew Sansa out of her thoughts altogether.

"And you think that is a sensible way to judge character?" Her brother inquired, but Sansa had been too wrapped around her own thoughts – she did not know which was the way that her brother was asking after.

"Sensible? Your grace, the only sensible person I have ever met is my tailor."

Sansa felt her brows rise and she saw the same expression mirrored in her brother, though on him it was accompanied by a smile and managed to look both amused and impatient.

"Your tailor? Do speak sense princess." Robb cut short, and Sansa only barely stopped herself from gasping out his name in that reprimanding tone that always made her sound like her mother when she used to scold them for lack of manners.

But the princess's smile only grew more amused.

"Well, she is the only one that takes my measurements anew every time she sees me, while the world goes on with the old ones and expects me to fit them.[1]"

Sansa turned her face away to hide her smile, but her ears didn't miss Robb's low chuckle even though she didn't see it. And by now her brother had brought the princess back to the tent and he bid good morning to both Sansa and mother as he saw them, and Myrcella did the same. To her credit, the princess's eyes did not linger for more than a breath on her mother's face (even though Sansa was sure that Myrcella she had read the expression immediately), instead choosing to keep her eyes on Sansa, and ask her if she had a restful sleep, to which Sansa replied good naturally that ' _yes, I did, thank you_ ' even though Arya had never gotten over her habit of kicking in her sleep. Her mother said nothing at all beyond inclining her head to Robb when he wished her a good morning.

"Thank you for the walk princess." He said then, and after hastily taking off her glove, Myrcella put her hand in his so that he could kiss the back of her fingers lightly.

"Thank you, your grace. Have a good day."

As usual Robb completely sidestepped with a smile the small pleasantries that he had never had time for, and left them. Myrcella watched him for a short moment and then, catching herself, she instantly looked away, busying herself with putting her glove back on. Sansa didn't waste a second. She was immediately at the princess's side, hooking an arm around hers.

"Well!" she said, looking at Myrcella conspiratorially. But Myrcella only smiled, and it was bright and content. A smile of a calm sort of happiness that brought relief. But before Sansa could needle some details out of the princess, a reassurance that her brother had proved the man she could be proud of, her mother spoke, drawing the attention of both girls to herself.

"We will be arriving in Riverrun in perhaps a few more days. I'm sure you're both looking forward to a proper bed and bath."

Sansa met her mother's smile with relief that she did not try to hide. "Yes I very much am. I could soak in hot water for a week, the way I'm feeling right now." Hoping that her enthusiasm could thaw her mother's sudden frosty demeanour.

"And you will get to meet Rose, if you like, princess Myrcella."

Sansa froze at the mention of the name, and not because she did not want to meet her little niece (gods, she still couldn't believe that she was an  _aunt_!) but because the mention of the child had not been remotely casual. Her mother was probing the princess and she was not even bothering to be delicate about it.

"Yes. I should like to meet the little princess." Myrcella said with a smile, her tone not wavering for a moment and a note of subtle, but easily distinguishable sincerity in her voice. Of course it would be; and of course she would not hesitate. Sansa had no reason to believe that Myrcella was lying, but even if she had been, the lie would have been flawless. If her mother had been looking for an obvious reaction she would be disappointed; Myrcella was much too used to these kinds of games and a consummate liar besides. In comparison to the intrigue she had to endure in the Red Keep and more probably in Dorne as well, this was nothing, childsplay, mostly because her mother's intention was so transparent and her probe very much expected.

The true question here was about the  _motive_  behind this.

"Robb has spoken to you about his daughter?" there was no mistaking the note of surprise in her mother's voice; nor that slight emphasis she put on the ' _you'_ in that question, as if Myrcella would be the last person on earth Robb would speak to about his daughter… Which, admittedly was a sensible deduction - or it would have been, if her mother had only implied a breach in manners - since to speak to your betrothed about a daughter you had with a previous wife was… well, it was borderline indelicate.

But then again, this was  _Robb_  they were speaking of. He was used to addressing men of war, not princesses. Perhaps he had forgotten the difference.

"No, his grace did not. But everyone knows the princess' name." and something like amusement flickered in Myrcella's eyes as she said that, but it was so subtle that Sansa doubted her mother noticed it. Sansa herself caught the flicker only because she was much more familiar with the princess' genuine expressions than her mother probably ever would be.

"Yes, of course. Little Rose was named after her mother, queen Roslyn. It broke Robb's heart when she died in the birthing bed." Catelyn said with no little amount of sadness. Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat with considerable difficulty. She did not doubt that her mother truly was sad that her good-daughter had passed in such unfortunate circumstances, but that did not mean she was not using honest feelings to do dishonest work[2] here. Just what was her mother playing at? Every moment that passed Sansa became more tense at this strange exchange and she was now looking around for something,  _anything_ , to break this senseless dialogue!

Myrcella however seemed so very undisturbed. Irritatingly so, one might say. She had not tensed for a moment, not even the smallest change in her breathing patter gave a hint that she knew the direction this conversation was taking. Sansa was not stupid enough to think that was the case; she knew better.

_What are you doing mother?_

"Perhaps that is why he dotes on that little girl so very much." Catelyn said as she fixed her gloves. "It would do you both good to meet. After all, you'll be the only mother the princess will ever know."

Myrcella nodded. "I will do my very best to love the little princess well, your grace. I'm sure it will be an easy thing, Dacey tells me she is the sweetest child."

Sansa could not detect even the smallest trace of insincerity in the Myrcella's voice. But her mother only hummed in response.

"I would rather you did not call me 'your grace', princess." Her mother said then, using that definite tone she always used when she wanted something done, one that could set the teeth of grown men on edge when her mother spoke as harshly as she had now. But Sansa found, to a certain degree of surprise, that after being exposed to Cercei Lannister's tempers and bluntness in all things, the effect of her mother's abruptness was much different than it once had been.

If Princess Myrcella's calmness was what she was to be judged by, than it was the same for her.

"I will address you as you most prefer, my lady." Myrcella said ever so serenely.

"Lady Stark will do. It is what all call me." and it was said with the finality of an order.

"As you wish, lady Stark."

If Sansa had not been so tense, she would have smiled at how neatly this folded at its close: Myrcella's tone was of such tranquillity, placid almost, that had anyone been listening and been a stranger to the character of the two women, this stranger would have thought her mother quite stern (or petulant, at worst) and Myrcella the perfect lady. Sansa had to be much more naïve than she was to think this was unintentional. Her mother may have missed this strange bend of the discussion in the beginning, but that did not last for long. She raised one eyebrow at the princess before she wished her good day and came to kiss Sansa's cheek - remembering to tell her that it was high time that she woke Arya.

It was then that Sansa understood the last part of the conversation had been perhaps the only part when her mother had demonstrated the slightest inclination towards Myrcella. That blue assessing gaze of hers had not softened, but there had been a relenting there, in the same moment that she realized that the princess was no fool to play with. Perhaps it had been the tiniest grain of respect for that, perhaps an even further hardening for the same reason. Sansa could not know.

Myrcella didn't comment on her mother's behaviour though, even once she and Sansa were alone, choosing instead to walk the diplomatic route and wait patiently outside as Sansa set upon the painful duty of waking her sister. With regret Sansa decided that she must have a talk with her mother, lest she make the mistake of making an enemy out of a potential allay. And if there was one thing they could all be sorry for in the future, in Sansa's opinion, would be to treat Myrcella as if she was Cercei Lannister, until she finally became so just to spite them. Her brother especially, would suffer for it.

* * *

[1] Inspired by a G. Bernard Shaw quote that goes almost exactly like that.

[2] Couldn't help myself, i just love that expression. GOT reference, of course – Tyrion says it about Cercei.


	6. Riverrun: All the truths that you don't know (pt1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculous-length Note: This chapter is obscenely long, so much so that i had to split it in two, since the second part (that i will be posting very shortly, promise) is just as long as this one, almost. I am sorry for that. I know that I take my time and explore, but even that should have some limits, right? I know that, but as we heard it once in a great movie, '…once I start I get too lazy to stop'. However, I would be very grateful to anyone who has the nerve to pick up this chapter and underline the parts that I should cut, since I cannot seem to do that on my own.
> 
> I went slowly on Myrcella's thought process so that the phases of it were clear and wouldn't feel forced or sudden – since she has taught herself not to make any 'sudden' decisions. I also added some bits about the Frey-Bolton betrayal (that do not really move the story forward, I know), because I thought you guys would like to have at least some kind of background on the 'how come Robb Stark is still alive' part.
> 
> \- Silly Note: you'll hear talk about a violet/dark-lavender dress in here… if you've seen 'Elisabeth: the Golden Age' you'll know the kind of vivid colour I had in mind. And as for the cut… I confess that I saw it in some stills of 'Reign' and fell in love with it: McQueen_Fall_2010 (nr.15 of the collection). If you google it that way, you're sure to find pictures of it, though the original one is black… aaand now I'm well past the limits of silly and brushing up cozily against the ridiculous… ;P
> 
> Sorry!

_**5**. Riverrun: All the truths that you don't know (pt1)_

_"You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting."_

_\- T.H. White, The Once and Future King -_

 

She had expected him to be a man of war – he truly couldn't have been anything else – and she had not been disappointed. He was certainly no boy, but Myrcella knew that he was not as old as he sometimes looked either. She did not know his age with true specificity, but she did know that Robb Stark could not be more than two and twenty, probably even less.

(which meant he was older than her by a good five years, though Myrcella tried not to think about that much. It was nothing, worse matches were possible. Gods, worse matches were made every day! Five years was  _nothing_! All the while she stubbornly ignored that voice in the back of her head that reminded her:  _Trystane had been two years your senior, and it_ truly _had seemed nothing to you then…_  he would be past eight and ten now, had he lived to see it…)

And yet, despite the King's youth, whenever she looked at the him, Myrcella found it hard to match the memory of Robb Stark in the courtyard of Winterfell from years ago with the man she saw now - the King of Winter - despite the fact that, objectively, she knew they were the same person. There were faded traces of that boy she remembered however: even with that beard that hid the shape of his jaw, the King was comely (and she remembered thinking once that Robb Stark had been so handsome); if the startling blue of his gaze weren't so cold and hard, his eyes would be beautiful; if his mouth wasn't always pressed so severely, his lips would be lovely; if she didn't distrust what it meant for her, she would like the width of his shoulders, the leanness of his tall frame. And there were new things as well, things she'd never known: she had learned that he could hold a conversation pleasantly, though he didn't seem to be one of too many words; that he could listen with patience to thoughts that different from his own, despite being very set in his ways; that he took care to place every touch with gentleness, even though it was as much as offering his arm, or kissing her hand. He was careful with himself, Myrcella had learned, and he was also very careful with her and she knew enough of the world to be thankful for it.

But for all the small interactions with him since that walk in the woods, she admitted that she learned of him mostly thought watching him about is business: with his bannermen, with his soldiers, with his mother and sisters.

He walked his camp often, spoke to all of his soldiers - from the horsed ones to the humblest footmen - as if he knew every last one of them and in turn they greeted him with rough-cut smiles and borderline-revering eyes. They loved him, Myrcella realized soon enough. They respected and believed in him. It was a quick realization: one only had to take a look around to step into it (and what a startling one as well: a King loved by his people - such a novelty). It was no surprise really: Robb Stark led his men through war, to victory and independence and now he was leading them home. He walked and spoke and acted a king, but he did it with the easy grace and familiarity of a soldier, a warrior that had shed blood with his brothers.

That was the image he presented and whether it was real or not, it didn't matter. It was what his men saw.

It was by watching him in the fold of his army that Myrcella learned that the King was not such a solemn man after all. He had an easy-going manner with his men which somehow, while making him approachable, managed not to rob him of an ounce of gravity. That easiness of speech and manner was like an armour around him against all false pomp. There was not one drop of that pageantry-feeling in Robb Stark that Myrcella had sometimes seen in commanders walking about their ranks, as if parading themselves and their title. There simply couldn't be: his armour was not gold-plated, silver or ornate: it was of the undescript grey of hard iron, scrapped and well used; he didn't wear his crown among his men – she had never actually seen him wearing a crown at all! It was as if he believed he did not need it, and that belief was returned to him a hundred fold by his men. He was a King not only in name, but in deeds. (Joffrey had always seemed ludicrous, but in comparison to  _this,_  he seemed obscene). Myrcella imagined that, had she been one of his men, she would have loved the Winter King too, same as his soldiers did… but the fact was that she was  _not_  a man in Robb Stark's army - and perhaps that was the problem: he would have been so much easier to like, if she could keep him in the safe distance of a liege lord, or even a friend… and as she thought that she felt like laughing. It was a little hard to do, she thought absently, fancying herself a man when she was stretching on her tub wrapped only in hot water and nothing else. The thought gave her giggles for a moment.

They had arrived in Riverrun hours ago, just a little past midday, and Myrcella had spent most of her time in that tub, scrubbing at her skin and her hair, enjoying the unwinding of her saddle-sore muscles. And what a pleasure that had been - the warm room, the soft bed and hot bath - a delicious frivolity that she could not resent herself for indulging in, not when she finally felt clean for the first time in weeks, her skin once again smooth and she could pass a hand among her curs and not have her fingers get trapped in impossible tangles after a few inches. The simple relaxation of it allowed Myrcella to almost forget that she'd have to dine in a hall filled with northern bannermen and riverlords that night. Myrcella had to admit however that the situation was nothing quite as new as she pretended it was. Certainly not the first time she'd have to share an evening with people that wished she would choke on her stew. So she luxuriated in the warm bath a little more, indulging in the faint scent of jasmine-oil in her water and dry wood burning in the hearth… and - though strangely incongruous - indulging in the thought of Robb Stark as well.

She could say now that she knew what a  _true_  smile looked like upon his face, what he looked like when he was happy - and to her relief, seen with her own eyes that he was actually  _capable_  of happiness. She had seen it not even three hours ago, upon entering the gates of Riverrun and could not stop thinking about the moment.

Myrcella had been riding ahead with the royal party and was among the first to enter the gates and into the keep – and from up on her horse it was easy to see the scene unfold: how swiftly the King jumped down from his horse and hurried his step to greet the tall man that looked vaguely like him - thought with brighter red hair and eyes less grave - and then immediately he'd turned to the middle-aged woman that was standing close to that man. For a moment Myrcella had a flash of doubt but the thought didn't even have time to form when she noticed that it was not the woman that he wished to greet, but rather the infant that she was holding: a little girl with tuffs of deep russet curs and wide clear-blue eyes that reminded Myrcella of Sansa's. The child could not be more than two years of age: a pretty little thing with chubby cheeks and pale skin that seemed the softest thing in the world and a squealing laughter that made one want to smile, the way children often do. The child gave a very loud squeal when the King picked her up and held her close. He greeted her with kisses and the babe squirmed a little in his arms, perhaps bothered by the scratch of his beard. The King – Robb Stark, he looked a lot more like Robb Stark then – had smiled at his daughter and the look on his face had been… Myrcella had been shocked by what she saw there, truthfully.

He had been full of love as he looked at that little girl, eyes so soft and smile so warm that he didn't look like the same person at all.

She had stayed in the great hall of Riverrun only long enough for the formalities to be done with (and long enough for Edmure Tully – their host and the King's uncle – to give her a look full of righteous distaste, undoubtedly feeling as if he was the first one to grace her with it). Afterwards all the new guests had been ushered to their rooms – something for which the princess had been so glad of that she could have kissed the maid that showed her to her room – and the hole time Myrcella had been thinking about that moment in the courtyard: Robb Stark with his daughter in his arms, and the tangible proof that there was truly a man beneath the King and the ever-winter of his eyes.

A man who could look at his daughter with so much affection, with such  _love_ … well, such a man could not be so bad, could he? And he was most certainly capable of more emotions than she gave him credit for. If up until then Myrcella had been almost convinced that the King was not as bad as she had feared him to be, his behaviour with his daughter seemed only to confirm it for her. The relief she'd felt had been palpable.

Directly after that, Myrcella had sternly warned herself not to put too much stock in anything.  _Trust no one but yourself_ , the voice of reason whispered to her. There was no guarantee that he would ever be capable of showing her the same image of himself, of ever trusting her that much. No guarantee at all that he would love the children his Lannister wife gave him in the same way he loved the daughter he'd had from his first wife (and Myrcella knew all too well that there were many ways one could be a horrible father and that an indifferent one was its own kind of agony… just as she knew she'd be pushed to do something horrible if he proved to be a cruel one). If one desired to be thoroughly mistrusting, one could even say that, the fact that he loved his child was not even  _real_  proof that he was capable of even a shred of the same emotion for anyone else: he could love his daughter fiercely and still be a monstrosity to everyone else… though Myrcella knew that by then she was grasping at straws. Robb Stark was not her mother; her mother was a unique specimen of human nature, too specifically broken and warped by the life she had led and the hurts she'd suffered, to serve as an example for anyone.

Myrcella knew that she was being stubborn with her refusal to admit it when something so obviously good was before her eyes, but she could not help herself. She was not the kind of woman to build people up inside her head anymore – that was among the most lethal mistakes one could make, she'd learned that painfully. She'd rather discover people piece by piece and as for the King, the only allowance she'd dare make was that he was not what she'd feared him to be – which was admittedly a great relief. OF course, Myrcella knew her own heart and mind, knew her weakness and what they craved: she would never be happy with so little, but she had long since stopped dreaming about happiness. Peace was all she hoped to find now, a sort of contentment. When one could not alter their own circumstances, the next best thing to do was make the most of them, and Myrcella wold do just that, and not waste a moment wishing for the stars. If you had the misfortune to be born a woman, a Lannister and a princess – all at the same time - you learned at a very early age that dreams were for fools and you were not permitted to be one.

Women… every time Myrcella found herself contemplating the thoughts of her sex in general, her mother came to mind. Cercei Lannister had often had much to say about women and their weaknesses.

_A woman's weapons…_

Myrcella lifted one leg over the edge of the tub and looked at the shape of her ankle, her calf and higher, her thigh. She touched the tips of her fingers down her sides, to her hips and thighs, wondering how a man might look at her… what the King would think of this body when she was in his bed. Myrcella knew herself for what she was: as tall as her mother, but without the sensational curves that made Cercei Lannister appear so stunning even when the prime of her age had passed. Her own body was more compact, made of wiry muscles and subtle curves, rather than shapely ins-and-outs. Perhaps because she was young still, or perhaps because of all the riding and the running and Obara's training… It was no matter anyway. Nymeria was just as slender, and she was beautiful in the eyes of all who saw her.  _Every woman's body is beautiful,_  Ellaria always said, and when it came to that, Ellaria was somewhat of an authority after all, so Myrcella believed her.

But it was one thing to have a body that one might find pleasing, and another thing entirely to know how to use it.

Myrcella had heard enough about the intimate preferences of men (' _call it what it is Myrcella'_ , a voice said inside her head, one that ' _It's called fucking!'_ ) from the uncensored mouths of those such as Obara and Nymeria, even Arianne. They had taken her aside when she flowered and spoken to her of a woman's body and its ways… and then later, of  _other_  things. Obara liked to speak of domination and mastering men to her own desire. Nymeria on the other hand treated seduction with the same finesse and mystery that she treated all else. Arianne… well, where the snakes explained fucking to her as a means to its own end - the end being your own pleasure and that of your lover - Arianne spoke of it as a game. Of how you could make men or break them; how to drive them mad with want and how to keep them wanting; how you could bend them to your will and use their desire against them.

(Myrcella would understand, once returned to her mother, that Cercei Lannister saw her body in this light as well… though her way was quite different from Arianne's. Arianne enjoyed it from start to finish; her mother made it sound like whoring oneself)

Myrcella had listened to them red-faced but fascinated, though she had not been able back then to imagine what it was like to have a lover - and now she knew that she probably would never have a proper one. Husbands are not lovers - they are husbands. In Dorne they had the neat solution of paramours for that, but westeros was different… and Myrcella would be  _queen_  (and she would rather die a thousand painful deaths than bring a single bastard into this world). And besides, despite all the stories and funny details, despite the fact that Myrcella might even know what it was to want - as in, to want a man as a woman does - the thought of laying with one brought nothing but apprehension for her. And when she thought of Robb Stark… she simply could not shake off the anxiety it brought her, how much the thought of being helpless that way with him disturbed her - which was a problem of its own because, according to Arianne, a man's true weakness was a woman's desire.

 _Could I maybe fake that?_  Myrcella wonders absently, and in the space of the same thought she decided that she should ask Obara about it. Or rather, Nymeria, if she were willing – Obara was not likely to understand the need to  _pretend_  you wanted someone. Tyene was bound to be full of heady secrets too, but Myrcella would never ask  _her_  for any of them; Tyene's secrets were poisonous as Tyene herself. Ellaria might have something valuable to teach her, and though Myrcella dreaded the older woman's extreme and indiscriminate sexuality a little, she would likely do well to listen. After all, Ellaria had kept one such as prince Oberyn for her own for more than sixteen years - that was no easy feat. And that was something Myrcella would like to learn how to do, because though she did not know herself as a married woman, seeing that she had never been one before, she did know that she would not like to share her husband with anyone.

And as Myrcella contemplated that, she deliberately did not think of her mother. Gone were the times when she'd ask herself what Cercei Lannister would do in her place. The only time she did, was so that she could do the exact opposite - which was why, as she contemplated the lines of her own body, Myrcella did not delude herself into thinking that by using it she could ever gain any ounce of control over the King. She had seen how feeble that kind of power was, how fast it waned. Both Cercei and Arianne were wrong there: assuming that all men could be ruled by their cocks was as irrational as assuming that all women were airheaded fools without two coins of sense to rub together. Men could be driven to utter madness for a woman and that was true enough – as women could be for men - but desire itself was too volatile to be a solid means of control; using it as such was like building sand castles and expecting them to hold against the oncoming waves – it seemed to Myrcella an amateurish mistake to make, especially when the ones making it were women seasoned enough in the games of shadows to know better that to put on men more trust than their nature should allow.

Women like her mother, Myrcella unwillingly admitted. That men were slaves of their loins was a notion that Cercei Lannister believed in firmly… and perhaps resented just as strongly. She had always wanted to have been born a man, as if being a woman categorically precluded her from any direct form of power or violence. But a woman's helplessness in front of a man's fist was not weakness, it was fact; as was a man's soft flesh under any blade, as certain as death was in a poisoned cup. Blood-spilling and blood-drinking were not things only men could do well, and neither was leading kingdoms. There were many kinds of power and Myrcella had seen women successfully yielding them all – and each of them had proved more efficient at it than her mother was (but thinking that was unkind and perhaps… perhaps a better testament to her time among the dornish than anything else she had learned from them).

Power was a game of shadows and dust, Myrcella thought, and that was a truth that her mother had never quite grasped fully. Or rather, one that she regularly misunderstood. It was a mistaken vision that her mother had passed down to her precious firstborn. Joffrey was a ruin because of his own nature, yes, but also because Cercei Lannister was very nearly a complete failure as a mother.

_My mother… her shortcomings so glaringly obvious; her virtues so painfully meaningless._

But enough of that! Cercei Lannister was not what she wanted to think on now. How did she even deviate her thoughts that way? Had she not been thinking of the terrifying prospect of dinner? And later, of men? How had the thought of bedding Robb Stark brought her around to contemplations about her  _mother_? (though Myrcella knew the answer to both those questions, so intimately linked they were.) Safer to think of the feast alone and of the man men and women whose hatred and scorn she'd have to face.

Myrcella sighed deeply, tracing patters in the water with the tips of her fingers that were slowly starting to prune. How very ironic was it that a room full of people that wanted her dead sounded almost warm-hearted compared to what thinking of her family made her feel? She smiled to herself, and a little whisper in her head spoke to her with her uncle Tyrion's voice:  _murder preferable to family… there might be a Lannister in you yet!_  Myrcella smiled a little more widely, though her heart tightened a little with longing. She missed her uncle's wit. She missed little Tommen's smile… she'd missed Jamie's barbed humour for so long that now it was a faded memory, but her feelings for Jamie Lannister were a bit more complicated than that, unfortunately.

But she was lucky, because just in that moment, a knock sounded at the door, saving her from the thoughts; and just by the way the fist connected with the wood of her door, Myrcella knew who it was behind it.

"Come in Obara." Myrcella said, turning around in the tub so that she could face the door with a smile. Such a timely interruption. Obara opened the door and held it open for Elia who closed it behind her, taking Myrcella in with a smile – one that turned into a smirk when she looked back at her sister.

"I  _told_  you she'd still be in her bath." Elia said, speaking around her smile. Obara only rolled her eyes and landed herself on Myrcella's bed, flopping down like a dead fish with a groan as Elia sat herself on Myrcella's vanity chair, pulling both legs up over one arm and leaning against the other.

"I'm waiting on your lecture for overindulging." Myrcella said though it was but a tease. Obara only gave her a rude gesture with her hand.

"Tired?"

"No." Obara groaned. "Starving."

Elia shared a look with Myrcella but said nothing.

"I can't say I'm looking forward to dining with all those men, to tell you the truth." Elia said distractedly. "Most of them smell like a two-day-old carcass in the sun."

Myrcella curled her nose at her friend. "Lovely thought."

Elia only raised one eyebrow at her. "Not very enthused about the oncoming feast, are you?"

Myrcella sighed but said nothing. Elia got up from the chair and came to sit on a low stool behind Myrcella's head, brush in hand ready to pass it through Myrcella's curls that had been hanging out of the bath and starting to dry. She'd already brushed it, but she didn't say anything because Myrcella loved having her hair brushed and Elia loved brushing it.  _You have gold growing out of your skull_ , she used to say,  _and I have ebony_. They had waved their hair together once, laughing at the contrast.

"I wouldn't worry. You'll be sitting close to Sansa and she likes you. And once the official part is over, you can come sit with us. I'll come up there and steal you away." Elia said putting her head close to Myrcella's practically whispering the words in her ear like a secret conspiracy. It made Myrcella smile.

"I'm not sure what to wear." She finally said then.

"No red." Obara quickly pointed out and Myrcella narrowed her eyes at her.

"Thank you for the obvious council, oh wise one. No I mean, do I dress richly? After all I am to be a queen and I am supposedly a princess. I wouldn't do to look beneath my station – it could be seen as an insult to the King. But then, would they take offence in my dressing up as too rich? As if I'm flaunting my family's name and fortune - and all the rest - right in their face."

Not that anyone in that hall tonight would need reminding. Even those who'd never met her, knew her. Even those that never met her mother.

Still, Myrcella knew that the Riverlands had suffered dearly in the war: they were the knot of the realm and practically indefensible besides. And her grandfather, the undimmed Tywin Lannister had unleashed the Mountain on them… Myrcella felt her skin crawl every time she thought of the man. No, she didn't want to cause discontent… but she'd chew on her own hand before she was made to look feeble in front of anyone.

Obara had turned on her stomach, face buried in the covers so the groan she let out was muffled. Of course she didn't give a rat's ass about what Myrcella was to wear. She'd probably wear breeches herself.

"Wear something of rich cloth, but simple cut." Elia suggested wisely, as the motions of the brush became soothing. "It seems like a good compromise."

Myrcella nodded. Yes it was.

Elia set the brush aside and it was then that Myrcella chose to finally end her long bath and start getting herself ready. She rose from the water and stepped out of the tub, catching the robe that Elia threw at her from the other side and wrapping it around herself. It was warm in the room, the fire was roaring, but from out of the water Myrcella felt suddenly cool.

"Hells Myrcella, what is it, don't they feed you in the Red Keep?" Obara asked, as Myrcella feared she would, sounding surprised and even angry.

The princess knew why of course: she had lost much weight these last few months and though she had been slowly getting back to her usual form, she was not as she'd been just yet. She had not hoped for Obara not to notice – Obara noticed almost everything – but she had hoped however that the older woman would have Elia's tact and keep the observation to herself. She should have known better of course – she  _did_  know better. But hope lies a slow death, it seemed.

"They fed me well enough, but my appetite was whimsical since I had to share a table with my brother most of the time." Myrcella said blandly as she dried her hair, looking at a spot on the carpet in front of the hearth.

She did not mention that the journey to the Red Keep from Sunspear had been less than pleasant, and that during that journey she'd been fed with bread and water and the occasional stale fruit. Those were memories she did not particularly wish to revisit and she was glad when Obara didn't enquire further into it. Elia's warning look had been enough this time it seemed, to make her think again about asking. Myrcella was grateful for it.

"You should have thought of that yourself – the dress thing." Obara observed from where she was laying, now on her side, her head propped on her hand as she stared at Myrcella's face intently. "Why didn't you?" and then, without even giving Myrcella time to answer: "What's been worrying that pretty head of yours?"

Myrcella shrugged, but walked over at the bed where Elia too was now lying and saw on one corner, leaning against the bedpost as she dried her hair with a linen cloth. Should she…

_Oh, why the hell not!_

"I have been thinking about the King."

Elia smiled brightly as she flopped back against the pillows. "Oh, finally! I thought you'd never get over your 'sensible' approach with him."

That Obara stayed silent was something Myrcella did not miss.

"I am well within my rights to be careful."

Elia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know, but… well, you keep everyone at such a distance, Myr. It's a struggle to get close to you." She paused briefly, enough to let Myrcella know that she was hesitated a moment at least, before bringing it up. "I don't think you've made a single new friend ever since Trystane died."

Myrcella said nothing to that. Elia had a way of divesting your innermost secrets right in your face, and quite carelessly too sometimes, but she'd never done it in any way that had felt hurtful. It did feel a little so now though, and Myrcella felt like biting back something like ' _and you wonder why?_ '… But that would have been unkind and much too low a point to make. So Myrcella kept peace. What Elia said was the truth after all and she'd be a liar if she said different.

_Fool me once…_

"You were saying you've been thinking about the king." Obara pushed, saving Myrcella from having to grace Elia with any kind of answer.

"Yes." Myrcella said, taking her line of thought back up… and hesitating. "His men like him."

Obara rolled her eyes almost at the same time with her younger sister. "His men think the sun shines out of his ass. Or, what is the saying up here, the he 'pisses snow' or something of the like."

Myrcella bit her lip, but couldn't hide the smile. "I'm sure the phraseology is the same, Obara." Myrcella said and took a deep breath. "His men would follow him through all seven hells themselves, but what about his bannermen?" she asked then, and on this she had to ask Obara who was among the fighting men and her father's right hand. She was bound to know some details that were precluded to most. At least she was bound to know more than Myrcella did, since she'd never been present when the king spoke with his captains of his bannermen. Of course not…

"What about them?" Obara asks, needing a specific question to focus on.

"What do they think of him?"

Obara frowned. "He is their King." She said simply which earned a sigh from Myrcella.

"Yes he is, and as much as the soldiers of his army love him, the lords are something different. Lords of anything don't ever give their loyalty just because they must – they  _always_  want something back."

Obara gave her a contemplative look.

"It was his bannermen that declared him King you know, not the other way around. That says something." Obara quirked an eyebrow. "If you were one of his bannermen, wouldn't  _you_  love him?"

Myrcella though on that. No, she had not known that Robb Stark had been chosen to be a King. It was an obvious choice after all, Starks had always been the Kings of Winter, but still… it spoke of his worth, sure – and it also reinforced Myrcella's belief that he was even more dependent on his bannermen than other kings. After all, without them he would have no crown.

But then again, that had been years ago…

"I'm  _not_  one of his bannermen so I don't rightly know. And while there are lords who love their kings for being brave and strong and true, as there are those who resent them for the same reason."

Obara frowned deeply. "And why do would that be?"

Obara asked these kinds of questions often: she asked them not because she wanted to hear what she didn't know. What Obara wanted to hear was the things Myrcella – or anyone –  _thought_  she knew.

"If I had soldiers under my command, I wouldn't want their love and loyalty to go to another man. The only control an overlord has over his king are the military forces he supplies. If the lord wants to ignore the king's call, but his men don't share that opinion… well, I wouldn't like that king much."

"You wouldn't be much of a lord though, if you ignored your liege." Obara pointed out and Myrcella finally lost patience.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. I just want to know if there's anyone in particular among is men that wishes me harm. Or rather,  _more_  harm than the others." And how the king would feel about that – that would be nice to know as well, but that was something neither Obara nor Elia could tell her.

Elia gave her a sympathetic smile. "They don't much like you, it's true." But she was teasing, Myrcella could see that.

"Of course they don't. Half of Westeros doesn't much like me, the other half hates me. It doesn't exactly break my heart. But I want to know if there's anyone that hates me with a passion a little more fierce than the others. Someone I should watch out for."

And at that, both Snakes fell silent – a silence that hinted of answers.

"There's Lord Karstark – he's one you must watch out for, truly." Obara said. "About the same age as the King, big man, bushy beard… but I just described ninety percent of this army. You'll know him by the way he scowls at you, never mind."

Elia filled in the reason why, when Obara neglected to do so. "The Kingslayer killed his older brother and his father on the battlefield and strangled his little brother with his chains when he tried to escape."

Myrcella felt her mouth go dry.

This was… this was expected, admittedly. And at the same time it was not. She knew men died in war. A war had been waged by her family, thousands had died by Lannister swords – same as they'd died by Stark swords. War was carnage… and those were just words. Myrcella knew blood and fear and hatred, but she did not know battle. She had no faces to link to it, no screams to remember or blooded fields to recall. All she had was words and tales. But this was different: it was closer. Killing on a battlefield she did not know, but the other one – with that she was intimately familiar with. As Jamie had killed to free himself, so had Myrcella, not even so long ago. She could understand it, but… But she had not had to sit down and break bread with the family of those she'd killed after! That changed the situation most thoroughly… and it made her wonder of things that she perhaps should not wonder; practical things that hurt to think about. Things like: how many men had Jamie killed himself? How many had reason to hate her for the blood that her blood had spilled? Not some general idea, some man in red armour, but  _her_  blood, her  _father,_ as much as she hated the word… the man whose flesh she had been made of, whose blood flowed in her veins.

"Anyone else?" Myrcella finally asked so flatly she might have called ever herself callous. Elia gave her a tiny smile, as if she knew exactly what Myrcella was thinking. Obara on the other had regarded her with cool eyes.

"Not with any tie to you that is quite so particular, but as for the King… well, I have heard rumours going around." Elia said then, looking from her sister to Myrcella in turns. Of course she had. She was like a shadow when she wanted to be, and words in the wind called to Elia the way the scent of blood called to wild beasts.

"Remember when we heard that the King in the North was dead?" Elia asked, looking at Myrcella in the eye with her shining amber ones. Myrcella did remember. She had been in the Watergardens when she'd heard, and Robb Stark's laughter had not been the faded memory that is now. She'd felt sorry for him then, for the boy she used to know that wouldn't smile any longer.

"Well, apparently though not dead, he got pretty close to it. He was betrayed by one of his own and the Freys."

Myrcella frowned. The Freys had been the family of his wife, his queen. What the bloody hell could have made them betray her, their own blood, if not their king?

"Apparently, the King had had Walder Frey arrested once the old man opened his gates at him and his army, and supplanted him with his heir."

"On what charges?" Myrcella asked immediately, leaning forward a little.

Elia shrugged. "Oathbreaking. Walder Frey was one of the Tully bannermen, but when Riverrun was under siege and soldiers were needed, old Walder had not kept his oaths to his overlord. Not even a single one of his men went to Riverrun. So, once the terms had been negotiated and the King was granted entrance into the Twins, Robb Stark called Walder Frey to answer for his actions and when he could not answer in any way that satisfied his grace or his bannermen, he was put in chains for them – and dragged all the way to Riverrun so that Lord Tully could pass judgment on him while his heir was put in his stead to replace him."

"And the son of that same man who had not kept his oaths, betrayed him." Myrcella reasoned bitterly. If the King had wanted Walder Frey punished for his crime or made an example off, his Frey head should have been taken from his shoulders in front of his whole army, the Twins cleaned of his supporters and a  _trusted_  man, with his own trusted soldiers, put there to supplant him and keep the peace while the King fought his war. Throwing men in black holes meant nothing if you couldn't go through with it… but maybe Robb Stark had not wanted to kill the father of his bride quite so soon.

It was a nice theory – and one that Elia deconstructed with a few chosen words.

"Oh no. Apparently, the new head of house Frey had been vocal in his calls to answer the threat against his liege Lord. He was quick to swear fealty to the King and apologise to Lady Catelyn for his father's misgivings. Once the Riverrun siege was broken, Lord Tully and the other riverlords had Lord Frey condemned for treason and his head was taken by the King himself, because by then the riverlords had declared him king of the Trident too." And here Elia smiled that tiny feral smile that made her look as predatory as her father. "Gotta love the Stark's nerve there. He had not even married the Frey girl at the time – which he promised he would do anyway, by the way, despite Lord Frey's general worthlessness or his untimely and bloody demise."

Myrcella scoffed. One could have argued that Walder Frey  _owed_  the northern army passage and had no right to exact toll on the King for anything, oathbreaker as he was. One could say that, and deduct that it had been so very noble of Robb Stark to have kept faith with his given word, despite the nature and crimes of the man he'd given it to. And if one could not look deeper into it than that, one would have to be a fool:  _Of course_  the King would keep his word - he'd have no choice. House Frey needed securing and Robb Stark needed their men and their bridge… and that girl's hand if he wanted to  _keep_  them both. Elia spoke of Walder Frey's untimely demise, but the whole of Westeros had been waiting for that old man to die for a long time. As for 'bloody' however… there, Elia might be right. And still, Myrcella could not think of one single person that would have wept over Walder Frey's grave, if even less than half of what people said about the man was true.

"So what happened?" who had betrayed whom; where, when… most importantly, why?

Elia shrugged and looked at her nails, disinterested apparently with the whole thing. "I'm not sure, there are so many tales going around. But the thing they all have in common is that a branch of the Frey house resented their leader's bloody dispatch and they allied themselves with the Lannisters because apparently – and here is the part that might interest you – one of Lord Frey's sons was married to Tywin Lannister's sister."

Elia looked at Myrcella expectantly, as if she was waiting confirmation. Myrcella searched her memory for the name, the face. She found the first, but the second was not there.

"Genna Lannister. She is married to a Frey, I think. I don't remember ever meeting her." Even barely heard of her, and never outside her lessons when she'd had to study her family tree and know the names of all the Baratheons and Lannisters, their ranks and marriages and alliances, all by heart. But that was such a long time ago…

"Well, she must be the one. Either way, on the King's wedding night in Riverrun there was an assault on the camp and many were killed. Ironborn, they said, and Frey men. Fuck knows what they were trying to do – some say that they had been paid their weight in gold to free Jamie Lannister, who was being kept in the dungeons of Riverrun at the time - but what they  _did_  accomplish was a hell of a lot of confusion apparently. Enough of it to get the King himself into the mix. He got himself stabbed… and there are those who swear that the dagger went right through his heart and he still refused to die."

Obara snorted. "Northerners like to make a big fuss out of everything. You'd think they were a more stoic lot with how solemn they usually look."

Myrcella was inclined to agree, but the King's stabbing wasn't the issue, since the he had survived it. The real question was how had whoever stabbed him gotten so close to him? The cloak of darkness was not nearly enough to spirit armed men inside a well guarded fortress. Betrayed by one of his own, Elia had said, which made sense: they would have needed someone on the inside to help them for that. Knowing her grandfather, it would be the one with the most to gain should the King of Winter fall. But Myrcella didn't know enough of the north and its conflicts to guess at who that was.

"So who was it that betrayed him?" she asked, as much to herself as she was asking Elia. Because someone  _had_  to have betrayed him, as improbable as it sounded now. It was easy to look at the northerner's rebellion as it was today and see it destined to come to a victorious end, but it had not started that way. It hadn't looked that way even well into the war. In the beginning Robb Stark's position had been much more precarious, at least politically speaking. He had been a very successful rebel, but a rebel none the less, whose campaign depended on alliances and the friends he could keep… and on his bannermen as much as on anything else.

Myrcella found herself looking at him with his men often, and just as often she wondered: how much had he had to compromise, to march them south? How much more, to keep them in a war for years? Was it as true as they said, that northern lords were bound by more than their own interests, that they really did believe in honour? Myrcella doubted it. She'd never seen such a thing as honour preserve a man's life in the face of a swinging sword. It was easier to believe that it was their collective hatred of the south and the crown – and the promise of gain - to give them momentum in the beginning. And it was just as easy to believe that one of them had seen the war for a failure, and their King for a boy, and decided to switch sides as long as it was still feasible.

Elia looked at her with dark eyes that seemed to know more than they would ever tell anyone. Myrcella didn't even blink under her friend's stare. She knew better.

"Northerners are a superstitious lot it seems: most don't like to speak to foreigners of what amounts to them as the most dishonourable and shameful of betrayals. You've got to get them seriously drunk before they even consider it, but once you do, a certain lord Bolton of the Dreadfort features heavily on their angry rants. And how the King's wolf ripped his throat out. And how the Bolton's bastard set siege to Winterfell and almost burned it to the ground before he was rooted out. And how some say he's dead and others say he's not."

"I thought it was the ironborn who tried to burn Winterfell!" Myrcella said immediately – and so did the rest of the realm for that matter.

"So did the King for a while. The truth seemed to be of a different colour."

Bolton, Myrcella though, and tried to recall the name from her lessons, the history. It had been quite a while ago that she had learned the names and symbols of all the houses of Westeros, and unfortunately for her now, the North had never been deemed so important to make a careful study. But she knew that the Boltons were an important house of the North. She remembered vaguely that they were second only to the Starks of Winterfell… the flayed man was their symbol – and she remembered that because it had always frightened her. What were their words? Myrcella could not recall them.

"How did the other lords react when one of them was killed by the king's wolf?" Myrcella could not imagine that that had not been met with some frowns, whatever the circumstance. When a prominent lord committed treason, the necessity for a fair and very public trial was direr than ever, if only so that the bannermen could not say that the king was killing his men at his pleasure. Kings who did that tended not to last very long.

"Bolton did not die at Riverrun the night the King was stabbed. He died later, at Harrenhall, or something like that. And I have yet to meet the man that regrets his passing: it seems that Lord Bolton had been acting without orders while he was stationed in Harrenhall, sending men of other noble houses to die in useless battles while he kept his own as reserves. He might as well have stuck a dagger behind all their backs – which seems to be something no northerner can forgive."

Myrcella sat back, leaning against the bedpost and looking at Elia in stunned silence. She'd never heard of any of this… not that anyone had ever deigned to fill her in with the particulars of the war of course, but  _still_. That was a pretty big secret to keep! Treachery of this calibre must have shaken the northerners hard… and perhaps even hardened their resolve. No wonder nobody seemed to mind that a wolf had torn Bolton's throat out.

"Lord Bolton sounds like a stupid man. Did he think he'd never get caught slaughtering his own troupes?" Elia asked herself as much asked it to the other two girls with her.

Obara was the one who answered. "I doubt very much that he was stupid. I think he knew exactly what would happen in Riverrun and expected the King to die. I think that the King chose to let that word spread, so that he might root out the spy in his ranks – and he did." Obara's eyes settled on Myrcella's and even before the older woman spoke, the princess knew what she was going to say. "And I also think that Bolton had help from King's Landing."

Myrcella smirked, an honest expression of sharp cunning that she allowed herself only when in the presence of those she most trusted. "From my grandfather, you mean." Obara raised her brows in ways of an answer and it made Myrcella smile wider. "Tywin Lannister probably orchestrated the whole thing. It sounds like something he would do."

"Sneaking behind an enemy's back you mean?"

Myrcella only cocked one eyebrow at Obara's goading. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought they were trying to provoke her, but Obara knew her better than to think any kind of truth about Tywin Lannister could ever inspire passion in her. But there was one aspect over which Obara was wrong – one that Myrcella had learned fairly recently about her grandfather - or rather, discovered. She had always thought that he was a cruel man, but that was not strictly-speaking the truth. The outright misery he inflicted upon others - of his blood or not - by his actions (sons and daughters that he dehumanised completely and only saw as tools, by the by) certainly classified him as a cruel man, but he was not  _ruled_  by cruelty, it was never his motivator. It was not a part of him at all, much as it may surprise some people. Tywin Lannister was, to the deepest core of him, a coldly efficient man. Myrcella was convinced that he probably had no humanity to speak of to hold him down, to weight his hand and his conscience. No honour, no fear, no hesitation… and it was a horrible thing to say but that gave him a great strategic advantage over his enemies: where others were bound by conventions, Tywin Lannister probably saw himself above them. There was nothing he would not do to get what he wanted, as he had proved time and time again. Cruelty was just a result of that kind of thinking, not the reason behind it.

"What I mean is that it sounds like something he would do: Extreme, efficient and to the point. He probably knew that the northern ranks were breaking and decided to use it to his advantage. Too bad it came back to bite him in the ass."

Obara's eyes turned surprised on her. She had not expected that kind of answer, not formulated in that manner. Myrcella herself knew that months ago, when she was still in Dorne she would have sung a slightly different tune.

"So you know more of Tywin Lannister now?" and this time it really was a question, an honest one.

Myrcella shrugged. "Barely so; enough to survive him, I hope… and on occasion get on his nerves when I got bored. It was fun to see how far I could push before he left me for Joffrey to deal with."

Elia had sensed the danger vibrating in the conversation but where she held her vigil in stillness and contemplation, Obara leaned forward, closer to Myrcella's face, fascinated by it.

"And how far was that?"

"Not much I admit. He is a rather dull man, my grandfather."

He had enjoyed her wit over dinner occasionally (something that had always caused a strange reaction on her queenly mother, reactions that usually led her to most surprising silences), or at least as much as Tywin Lannister seemed to enjoy anything, but the moment she actually got funny (namely, insolent) and joined her uncle, her grandfather got impatient. A shame really, since insolence was where uncle Tyrion excelled and Myrcella considered herself his favourite student.

"Can we please move away from the topic of Tywin Lannister. I don't like talking about him." Elia said tensely. It made Obara roll her eyes but Myrcella could only smile, though a little sadly.

"Nobody really does Elia."

"Unless they're plotting to kill him." Obara was quick to add.

"Well, there's always that." Myrcella countered, utterly unaffected. But then she decided to heed Elia's advice. "What were we speaking of before that anyway?"

"The north and the south and how they're not so different after all." Elia immediately supplied. At Obara's questioning frown however she explained. "That the Northerners betray their own and turn cloak same as anyone – Lord Bolton did!"

Myrcella held her tongue, but Obara outright groaned as she flopped back on the bed. "Hells, sister! Did you really believe all that about the northmen?"

"Not exactly, but…"

"No, there's no ' _but'_  anywhere." Obara was firm to correct. "Listen well sister: There are greedy and grasping men everywhere, as there are cruel and cold men everywhere. Once in a while you might even find good men, in unlikely places. But  _all_  men lie." Obara stated with a certainty that brokered no disagreement and unfortunately for Elia, Myrcella could not make one. What Obara just spoke of was a rule Myrcella had learned to live by too: anticipating lies and never taking anything at face value. Learning how to look beneath the layers of the obvious (and not so obvious at times) what was already there was a careful art, but if one had patience, one could master it. And if there was one thing that Myrcella did not lack was patience: pain teaches it to you better than any master ever could.

But Elia had not been tempered with the same fires and hurts that Myrcella had been. They had both lost much, but not in the same way. Elia had always been home, with her sisters and people who loved her about her. Not so for Myrcella, though they had loved each other dearly for years. Myrcella had been alone in a foreign place, hated on all sides and distrusted and despised… and hurt for crimes she never committed and faults that were not her own.

_Different flames have made us… and it shows._

"Yes, but there is a difference between the south and the North though." Elia pointed out quickly. "In the south, lying is seen as a matter of course. Something widely accepted-" and she didn't even need to give an example of it, since Obara and Myrcella had just made her point for her there. "-but in the North, they see lying as something to be done unless all other options have been exhausted. Something to be ashamed of, almost."

Obara snorted. "They like to believe their own legends up here, but if you believe they're above treachery and deceit you're a fool."

Elia made a face at her sister, annoyed now. "I don't believe they're above treachery – we were just discussing it, if you recall. And I don't think they're above deceit either. But most seem to prefer direct confrontation to plotting in the shadows. Plotting and scheming are the weapons of cowards – or so the northerners seems to think it. I mean, take at what father says about the King's council: when the bannermen disagree with him, they say so in his face. And there's something to be said too for the kind of King that allows such discussions – I think that is why in the end, the King's will is s absolute among them."

Elia gave Myrcella a considering look, as if she was just hashing something in her mind. "It might work to your advantage, that. You'll know immediately who dislikes you and who does not, whom you may win over in time and whom not. At least as far as I've noticed, northerners tend to be pretty straightforward about their thoughts and feelings."

Myrcella scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yes, I too have noticed that." Though her admission lacked Elia's unprejudiced tone and felt a little more like she was being sarcastic. The northerners had been free enough with their opinion of her after all.

"Oh, to all hells with them! Forget about the bloody bannermen for a moment!" Obara snapped rather impatiently. She was exponentially impatient when she was hungry. "You'll met them and know them for yourself, which I'm sure you'll prefer. Tell me about the King – it's with  _him_  you started this before you saw fit to distract us with talk of strategy and tactics."

Of course she wouldn't give up, Myrcella told herself. Obara never did. But perhaps she did have a point about letting things run their own course. She should worry so much over things she had no power to control.

"There is not much to tell." Myrcella admitted to with a shrug. Without her permission, the memory of his smile as he looked at his daughter came to mind. "I find don't find him quite so frightening anymore and I think I may come to like him, or at the very least tolerate him easily, if the man I see in him is truly the man he is."

Elia just smiled but Obara's eyes were heavy on her full, of contemplation.

"Careful Myrcella." She said after a moment, sounding utterly serious. "Loving one's husband is the very worst thing a wife could do. I'm told its quite the inconvenience."

She speaks so calmly, with such a tone – it dared to be light, conversational almost - that mocked the seriousness and heaviness of those viper eyes that stayed on Myrcella without blinking. Obara's tone made her statement into the worst king of jape: the kind that is not funny at all and begs for tears, not laugher. In Myrcella it only sparks anger.

But she beats it back and raises one challenging eyebrow. "I tell you that I think the man is not as thoroughly monstrous as I'd feared him to be and you caution me against love? That is quite the leap you've made." And despite her want to be cool, her irritation shows.

"Yes perhaps." Obara admits all too easily and immediately Myrcella is suspicious. "So what about the king is troubling you so much that you tried to distract us with talk of his bannermen and all that nonsense?" Obara pushes, a certain bluntness in the enquiry that manages to make itself known even in the simplest of questions. Myrcella narrowed her eyes at her.

_Oh you think you're so smart don't you? Fine then!_

"I was wondering…" but then her nerve failed her. "Well, I was asking myself really, about…"

Oh,  _damnation_!

"Spit to out already!" Elia prompts, curious now. Obara's smirk however tells Myrcella that that little viper already knew.

Obara laughed heartedly. "You're wondering about bedding him, aren't you?"

Myrcella winced at her tone, at how much it made Obara laugh and maybe even because she was embarrassed as well. How strange when not even the bawdiest japes made her flinch, and yet she was reduce to such squeamishness by the thought of having a man between her own thighs.

"Stop that." Myrcella hissed at Obara who was still laughing and when that was not enough to make the older woman stop, Myrcella kicked at her thighs with her foot. " _Stop it_! It's  _not_  funny."

But this time Myrcella too feel like laughing because, there she was, contemplating that which would be the final goodbye to girlishness, the final step that should make her a woman, and yet, in the face of Obara's teasing, she managed to sound even younger than she actually was. The truly funny part was that Myrcella had always needed to sound older than her years - the occasions for her to show her youth and revel in it had dwindled down to none very fast – and yet this, the one thing that she needed to be grown about, made her return to childishness in a heartbeat.

But Obara didn't stop it – on the contrary she grabbed Myrcella's ankle and pulled, toppling her on the covers and rolling over her – making the princess yelp with surprise and then laughter when Elia joined in.

"You've both lost your minds!" Myrcella shrieked, but she did abandon herself to laughter when Obara tackled her and straddled her thighs keeping them firmly in place and her hands caught in hers, grinning like she was utterly out of her senses… and enjoying a particularly good hunt. Stupid woman!

"What are you so worried about then? He'd handsome, your King. I bet he's pleasant to look at beneath his leathers too – if not a bit pale for my tastes." Elia drawled from close to her head, having curled herself close to Myrcella's side and not doing a single thing to help the princess buckle Obara off her – for which Myrcella glared at her, and which Elia ignored. But it was hard to glare for long, because Obara's fingers managed to tinkle her belly a she held her hands down and Myrcella couldn't help the squirming and giggling it caused her.

"He's not  _my_  King yet, and him being handsome has nothing to do with it." Myrcella said with gritted teeth trying not to smile as she pushed upwards with her hips trying to throw Obara off, but to no avail. It only made Obara laugh harder and her robe split down the front to reveal her thighs as she struggled.

"Oh he'll love your golden cunt, don't you worry about that."

Elia laughed and Myrcella rolled her eyes at that. Trust Obara to put things in the most uncomfortable way possible…

Obara spoke without any malice at all – it was a jest and Myrcella could even see the funny side of it, but it also made her think of other things, and just as she did, her body abandoned her struggle and went completely limp. That was when Obara let her go completely and their eyes met… and the understanding passed between them. Obara's smile fell, and her eyes turned serious in a moment.

"Are you afraid, Myr?" she asked as she removed herself from above her and settled on her stomach, by Myrcella's side, so that the princess was lying between Elia and Obara as the laughter died out of the three of them and their breathing slowed.

After a bit of thinking on Obara's question, Myrcella answered it with a nod.

"He seems like the sort to be kind." Obara said then, but even she sounded speculative. The truth was that she could not know that. But when she spoke again and sounded surer. "He is incredibly so with his sisters at least."

Yes, Myrcella had noticed that from afar. The King was capable of tenderness, but he bestowed it only to those he held closest, namely his blood alone.

"Is it the pain that you fear?" Elia enquired and though that made Obara roll her eyes, Myrcella answered all the same.

"No. It's not the pain – I doubt there'll even be much of it – or blood for that matter and I'm thinking I'll have to explain that -"

"Any man who's see you ride would know why, Myr; I don't think you'll have to explain anything." Elia stated as if she was speaking something beyond the obvious.

Myrcella sighed. "I hope so, or I am bound for a decidedly awkward conversation on my wedding night."

Obara huffed. "Not all girls bleed, you know." And then she cast Myrcella a side-glance wand a smile. "Even maidens who  _don't_  ride like desert-furies. Men know that, even thick-headed wolves of the north."

Myrcella felt herself smile. "I suppose…"

"Are you afraid he won't be pleased with you? Because if you say yes, I'll call you a liar and a flattery-fisher." Elia said then, half serious, half jesting. The hesitation in Myrcella's eyes made Elia jump up into a sitting position so that she could look at her friend from above as her incredulity exploded.

"Have you lost your senses?" she asked then, putting both hands on her waist, indignation mixing with incredulity. "Or perhaps your memory! Because if you don't recall the men following you around, begging to be your own if only so that they could steal a kiss, I do."

Yes, Myrcella remembered. And she could point out right then and there that they would have been lining up even if she'd had a face like a horse's ass, because what those men truly wanted was to make a token out of the Princess of the Iron Throne. Most – if not all – of them had been nothing but silly creatures too full of themselves that liked to collect trophies and boast about it – and Elia knew that.

But that was not the point anyway. Her fears were not of being unwanted – though that too was a problem of its own. But no, Myrcella's main worry was something else entirely; something that she could not explain to Elia, not now and not ever. Elia had not been there, she did not know what had happened that day in the Red Waste, on their way to the Prince's Pass. And even if she had been, what Myrcella had felt could not be understood from words alone. How could she even explain it: the terror of utter helplessness, the stain it left within you? That frantic need that followed, to never let it happen again, one that transformed you in a creature of walls and vigilant eyes and quick hands that were fast to grab a dagger if anyone got too close without permission. How was Myrcella to abandon that creature's habits and allow for closeness, for submission, when every fibre in her body screamed against it?

What filled Myrcella with trepidation was not the thought of pain, but the suspicion that she really would be a cold fish, paralysed by her own mind, and that she would ruin everything before it even begun. Or worse, that she'd panic and… and…

But she did not need to explain it seemed because Elia's eyes were quick ad her mind was ever quicker. And sometimes she saw much more than one would ever want her to see. Myrcella saw Elia's eyes widen and her mouth slacken, as she looked from Myrcella to Obara in turn as her memory connected the dots and her imagination filled the rest.

"Myr…"

It was a soft murmur as her hand came to catch Myrcella's, but Elia couldn't really form her question. Myrcella held her friend's hand tight and shook her head: 'no' she said without words, it wasn't that way; rape was not what had happened that day. It would have happened, but Obara had put a spear through those plans - and Darkstar's gut - before he could take that from her, as well as her ear and half her face.

Myrcella smiled a little… and surprisingly it was not even forced. "I'm just being silly. You know me: getting tied up in a Meereenese knot all by myself." She got up and slid off the bed, walking to her trunks. "Come, help me chose a dress."

Because really, she should know better than to dwell on the past by now. Down that road laid regret and pain and grief and shame… and a thousand other things that were not conclusive to anything at all, not anything but madness. What had happened was gone now, the only way to move was forward. The past was behind her shoulders and she had more important things to think of: presently, what the seven hells would she be wearing tonight.

"Wear that violet dress that Arianne gifted for your last nameday. I like how it looks on you, with all that gold hair of yours." Obara said slowly, looking at the canopy of Myrcella's bed.

Myrcella knew which one Obara spoke of. It was a silk dress of a violet so deep and vivid that when Myrcella had seen it for the first time she'd wondered how such a colour could even exist. She moved to her trunk and rummaged a little before she found it, laying it on the bed between Obara and Elia. The colour – a deeper shade than heliotrope flowers, more vivid than the darkest lavender - was still as much of a shock as it had been when Myrcella had seen it for the first time; still just as beautiful. She passed a hand over the skirts, feeling the cool smoothness of the fabric. With its long narrow sleeves and high collar, the dress was very modest and truly cut very simply, without any embellishments beyond the golden brocade decorations of the bodice and sleeves. But the simplicity of that dress was a lie, because the true illusion revealed itself only once the dress was put on, in how faithfully the embroidered bodice would cling to her upper body, showing off every gentle curve from breast to waist to hips before flaring into multiple layers of pleated skirts that fell to the floor and trapped the light within its folds the way the best silks do.

Rich cloth, simply cut - just like Elia said. Myrcella smiled a little. Yes, she'd wear this one – with woollen stockings and thick boots since she hated having cold feet, and a nice warm shift beneath.

"Leave your hair lose tonight." Obara said as she looked at her, a wicked smile staring to form on her lips. "They'll stare anyway, might as well give them something worth looking at."

o

o

TBC very soon...

Author Note _: to all those to whom Myrcella seems a little too knowing and mature for her age, I say I would agree,_ if _this was any other fandom; but people have a way of growing up very fast in Westeros and they learn hard lessons all too soon - so I thought it would make sense. I have tried to keep her playful and young when she is comfortable, to balance it._


	7. Riverrun: All the truths that you don't know (pt2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- AN: for the dance that you will read about here, I had imagined something very much in the spirit of Roxanne's Dance in 'Alexander' – at least that's what inspired me. Something vaguely eastern-sounding, exotic and seducing. Hope you like – let me know!
> 
> \- Even-MORE-ridiculous-length Note: I am so sorry! This one is like, 20.000 words worth of descriptions, dialogue and monologues... and i honest to god hope its worth it. Maybe i should split this one as well, but after promising to post it whole, i thought it would be cheating, so I won't break it for now.

_**5** _ _. All the truths that you don't know (pt2)_

_'I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.'_

_Leonardo da Vinci_

Arriving at Riverrun had been a blessing in many different ways. A ground to rest and a place to set his men for a few days, ease the horses, rest his soldiers and speak calmly and without haste to his bannermen who would, hopefully, be calmed out of their evil tempers that the harsh marching induced them with.

All these should have been his priorities. He was a King of his people and had a responsibility to each and every one of them… and yet, the moment his eyes fall on his daughter he could no longer find any thought within himself for his army or his men. There could be no words for what he felt, none to adequately describe what it was like when you know you have a piece of yourself cut out from your own body, waiting for you somewhere… and the only moment it stops hurting it's when you set eyes on her again and she is safe, and whole and happy. That Rose remembered him was the very top of his joy, it filled his heart with such happiness that for a moment he thought that, perhaps he had been left in a state of frozen limbo the entire time from the moment he left her, just so that he could feel this way when he saw his daughter again. And when he held her, a tiny bundle of cloth and soft limbs too frail to be real, he finally felt like his own self again. Finally he could draw a true breath and it would rest easily in his lungs.

' _We're going home soon._ ' He told his daughter as he put her in her tiny bed, hours later. She'd fallen asleep on his shoulder – after spilling ink on the table, crinkling half his letters and stuffing in her mouth the wooden direwolf he used to pinpoint the location of his forces. She'd done that and more – Sansa and Arya and mother chasing her around his solar, laughing after her, none of them having the heart to get her to stop. Little Rose had them all wrapped around her tiny fingers and unfortunately for his desk and maps, her father was no exception either.

As Robb sat by his little girl's crib and watched her sleep – the heart-shaped face and puffy pink cheeks, the round lips just slightly open as she took breath after soft breath - he found his thoughts going to his own father.

Robb wondered about his father more these days, as time went on and the responsibilities of the crown he'd never wanted piled up and made him feel so much older than his one and twenty. What had Ned Stark felt, Robb asked himself, when Rickard and Brandon Stark had been killed by the Mad King? What had he felt, riding into war when he was barely more than a boy himself, with responsibilities that were never meant to be his at all? Ned Stark too had had to sent men to war to die, thousands of them; he had fought and killed who knew how many, he had lost a father, a brother and a sister… What had been his father's thoughts when he climbed the steps of the Tower of Joy only to find his sister Lyanna dead? Or when he went back home and his uncle Benjen was already set on taking the Black? His father's family, his history, all that he had known of his house had burned to ashes during Robert's rebellion and Ned Stark had been left alone: the one Stark in Winterfell. He had returned to a whole life that had never meant to be his in the first place. Had his father felt like a stranger walking Winterfell's halls? Ned Stark -  _my father, he was my father_  - had always seemed to Robb born to be exactly who he had become: Lord of Winterfell. There was nobody else Robb could imagine as such. But then again, there were plenty of those that could see none but him as King of Winter… and sometimes when he heard that, Robb felt like they were speaking nonsense. There had been no Kings of Winter for three hundred years! Now he was the first. Had been for years, and would be for many more, it seemed. And now more than any other time, what Robb wished he could do was speak to his own father about the doubts and fears that he still harbored in his heart. But Ned Stark was dead and all Robb could do was wonder what it had felt like for the father he'd loved, when he had gotten a title that he too never expected to receive. Robb did not know the answer to that. He had ever known Ned Stark as a father, and those were questions Robb had never thought to ask before. Thoughts like those had never even brushed by his skull before the war, and by then it had been too late. Time had seemed eternal, until one day it wasn't.

There were nights when he couldn't stop dreaming about his father in the dungeons of the Red Keep, hungry and hurting and alone with only his doubts to prey upon him. These were dreams of darkness and pervaded by a sense of heavy dread, fear and regret. The ghosts of nightmares and the past that seemed just around the corner, shades that Robb could never catch a glimpse of but that he feared all the same. and it didnt even matter that in his dreams RObb could not quite tell if the ghosts that haunted him were his own or his father's. It did not even matter: the thought alone of his father rooting in a dungeon and dying alone was enough to make Robb want to tear his hair off sometimes.

He had heard it said that his father had had to chose between his honour and the lives of his daughters. That Ned Stark had been made to declare himself a liar and a traitor in front of all of King's Landing, only to have his head cut off for his effords. Had his father known, suspected, that his words might bring him to his death regardless? Had he chosen to speak those damming words regardless, for Sansa and Arya alone? Chosen love over honour, lies over his own given word?

Robb ran a finger gently down Rose's tiny arm, feeling her skin so soft and miraculous… and knew in his heart that if it came to it, he would burn the whole world down to the bone for that little girl sleeping so soundly in her bed, duty and honour be damned. If it was ehr life in the balance, his honour would mean little: for her he would pay the price that he would never be willing to pay for himself. It was a fierce feeling, of the kind he'd never felt before, not like this; one that he could barely comprehend and yet knew in his heart that he didn't need to. It was on the same scale with all the other truths of the world: the sun rises every morning, the night follows the day as winter follows summer, and so it is that you love your children and you'd die for them, kill for them and if you must, lie for them as well.

Anything,  _everything_ , for your children.

His father had taught him that, and his mother both.

The soft knock on the open door called him back to the present and when he looked behind himself he saw Sansa, swathed in a dress of the softest blue he'd ever seen, shiny silks over warm and soft wool and simple flowery patterns woven with silver thread in the delicate fabrics, looking every bit the princess she was and smiling at him knowingly. With her hair unbound and about her, she looked the living emblem of House Tully. He knew enough of her now to suspect it had been intentional.

"They're waiting for us." His sister said softly and Robb nodded. He got up, left a light kiss on his sleeping daughter's brow, ever careful not to disturb her sleep, and then left the room, leaving Sansa to close the door behind him.

"She is a beautiful child Robb. And so very sweet as well." His sister said around a smile as she tucked her arm around his elbow. His smile widened.

"Yes she is." He said and tried not to think too much of the mother that had given him that child. Roslyn would have adored her, he knew.

Sansa gave a small laugh, something caught between surprise and amazement. "I still cannot believe it: I have a niece… and you a daughter." And then, after a short pause, she spoke more softly. "It's not so strange, I know. It's as it should be. And yet, it seems to me sometimes that as if it were yesterday that we were children ourselves."

Robb looked at his sister from the corner of his eye. It had been such a long time since they had been together like this, on a quiet evening, about to dine in the hall with their family. Years really since their family had not been scattered throughout all corners of Weteros… and even then, even as children in Winterfel, Robb and Sansa had never been as close as they felt now. She was too young, too much of a girl then full of her own thoughts - and he had been just the same. She had changed though, changed so much from the girl he remembered that sometimes it felt as if she was not the same person anymore. And she was not. There were heavy things in her eyes that told him so, that likened her gaze to his more now, in both sharpness and expression, as well as their frosted Tully shade of blue.

Robb wondered if he too looked like a different person from her eyes; if sometimes she looked at him and it was a stranger she saw and not her own brother.

In the end it did not matter. Time did not, and neither how much it had changed them. They were altered but they were still family: they were the blood of Winterfell and would be till the day they died. All the changes and the space and emptiness between them had not mattered when he'd seen her again after so long: when he'd held her, safe in his arms again, it had been as if she sister never left his side. She had been his little sister then, just as Arya had become when he'd held her for the first time after years, and he had felt his eyes prickle with tears when his little wild sister had held herself so still and cold in his arms, as if she didn't quite dare believe that she was there with her family again.

In Winterfell, before the war, none of them had known the keen pain of missing family… and now that they all did, and that string had only pulled them closer than ever before, whether they liked it or not. Arya was ever watchful, ever weary of the smallest thing that could go wrong. She was changed and much fiercer, but still very much within her own nature and sometimes, for all her growling and jaw-snapping, Robb could see the frightened little girl still living beneath the hard skin of steel his sister wore like an armor. Sansa on the other hand... she was differently altered. It was as if she wanted to wash over her family all the love and affection that she had been denied these long years, as if all the amounts of it had been accumulating inside her and now were spilling in endless smiles and hugs and kisses, armfuls of honest love that tasted bittersweet... and which echoed inevitably with the sound of deep and painful loneliness. She was so much more grown than Robb remembered her - it still surprised him sometimes how open to the world her eyes were now, how quickly she could understand his mind once she got the gist of his thoughts. She seemed to sense him so acutely. Some days all it took between them was a look, and she'd know what he needed from her - something which never failed to surprise him... and make him feel as if they truly had never been a moment apart at all. She was perceptive, his sister, and full of things that nobody else noticed. Robb only wished that he could have the same understanding of her needs as she seemed to have of his. But for all the frankness the shared between them, there were creases in Sansa's mind as well and dark things hidden between them that she'd rather speak to nobody about (as there were in his, after all… and Arya's too, and mothers. Sansa was simply better at hiding them than all her family combined). Edges that made him feel as if he'd lost her for an entire lifetime, and not just a few years.

The distance of time and growing was both material and ephemeral at the same time, it seemed, and could be both solid as rock and as unreal as the memory of a dream.

Robb turned his head to look at Sansa in the eyes, a memory coming back to him then, one that he thought he had forgotten.

"Remember our last day in Winterfell? Before you left with father for the capital?"

Sansa's eyes flickered to his. Pain was always like a sharp flash in her expression whenever a mention of their father was made, but she nodded and smile faintly. "I remember. You had snow melting in your hair."

Did he? That he could not recall. He remembered laughing with his sisters however and putting Sansa on her horse himself. She'd been so small then, a little girl.

"It seems to me sometimes as if a thousand years have passed since that day." Robb said slowly, softly as if voicing out loud would make it all too real, and lengthen the time they had spent apart as if by magic. Fears were such silly notions: they made fools out of even the wisest of men, apparently; and turned even warriors back into boys.

Sansa's hand on his sleeve tightened and Robb felt the pressure of her fingers on his wrist, all the things that she did not say were there. Her smile was tremulous but grew sure as her eyes grew shiny.

"We'll be home soon, brother." She said softly… and Robb couldn't help but smile at that. His sister promised him the same thing he had promised his daughter only moments ago. It was the truth that the war seemed to have reminded them all of: there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, yes, but that coin had another face: Starks  _belonged_  in Winterfell, every last one of them. Its ancient walls called to them, sang them home from every distance, even across time. The north was their home, the winter was in their bones and it was from its frosty blades that they drew their strength, where it only daunted other men. It was north they all turned towards, when they looked of home and peace and a life that starts again. Winterfell was where they belonged and its song was in their blood, as it had been for thousands of years; the high grey walls of granite were the call of every wolf, a call that echoed in every tree and every stone; a song that was repeated to them from every heart tree and their weeping eyes. Home was the godswood and the darkness of winter too, the summer snows, the crypts of their forefathers and all that lay in between. Winterfell was hope of a life that didn't feel interrupted anymore.

They would be home soon, yes… and wanderers no longer.

Sansa leaned her head a little closer to her brother, the look in her eyes lighter, the smile on her face teasing.

"You've forgotten your manners completely, haven't you brother? Too much time among soldiers, I reckon." she said, bumping her shoulder with his – or rather with his arm, because though uncommonly tall, his sister was still shorter than himself.

"And what have I forgotten now?" he asked, playing to her tune. It cost him nothing to let his sister string him along, allowing themselves small freedoms; pretenses of forgetting some of the things that made them sad. Sansa was especially good at it.

"You have not complimented me on my appearance yet. It's bad manners not to tell a lady she looks lovely."

Robb's smile turned lopsided. "Haven't you yet grown tired of hearing it? I'm sure you know exactly how beautiful you look."

And if the Sansa he remembered would have once blushed and ducked her head; his sister now laughed low and leaned her arm against his further.

"Oh I know it. But a lady never tires of hearing it, especially when it's spoken sincerely." She stated.

Robb rolled his eyes. "When I meet this lady you speak of, I'll make sure to tell her, sister."

It was men to be a jape at Sansa's poor teasing, but his sister's smile was much too aware for his tastes. Looking at it Robb felt as if he'd just played into her hands, though he didn't know for what, didn't even know they'd been playing at all.

"Make sure you do. And try not to stare too much as well. It's flattering to the lady, but you wouldn't want others to notice it too openly." Sansa continued, more enigmatically than usual and this time Robb turned questioning eyes at her. What was she speaking of? But Sansa had already diverted the subject and into a territory so new that even had Robb truly wanted to know what she'd meant, he wouldn't have had a chance to ask.

"I even managed to get Arya into a dress. A red one, would you believe it? She looks  _beautiful_  and I doubt anyone will even recognize her - but don't say that to her or she'd turn her nose up and come back into the feast in breeches and a shirt."

Robb stared at his sister as if she was utterly absurd. "Alright… how did you manage to get her into a dress?" mother had been trying for months and to no avail. True, she did not insist too much, but still…

Sansa's smile was co and knowing at the same time. "I have my ways." And that was that.

Robb was about to turn and ask her further when she stopped her steps and, in turn, he had to do the same. He looked up to see his mother rounding a corner and smiling at him, his sister too - stunning in her red dress, just like Sansa had said she looked, with her short dark hair shiny and her pale face clean, grey eyes serious and just a little bit irritated, as Arya always looked when she was uncomfortable. The sight made Robb smile widely and unguarded, in that way that he reserved for his family alone… and that smile froze on is lips when he looked just over their shoulders and saw the princess, hovering in the corner, hands clasped in front of her as the Snakes, dressed in the bright colors of their country, surrounded her with talk and smiles. Among the tones of gold and orange of their dresses, the warm bonze and bright, fluttering silks, the princess's intense-violet dress made her look darker and more serious… yet she was a sight as vivid as any. And if before Robb had seen her wearied by the long marching and the cold, now he saw her as she was: a princess.

Her every feature stood out for all those with eyes to see, from the deep pink of her lips and the sun-kissed shade of her skin, to the green eyes made brighter still, surrounded as it was by waves and waves of hair that in the light of the candles looked a deep shade of gold, as if truly is was spun from the very same.

Looking at her then, it was so easy to believe that she had been created by the gods solely for the purpose of distraction.

Robb didn't know if he'd been willingly blind to her before, or if it was the fact that he felt he knew a little more of her now – at least enough perhaps, to admit without too much regret or resentment that  _yes_ , the sight of her had managed to literally stun him for a moment; made him feel as if he'd looked at her – looked for lies, deceit and manipulation, for her secrets (that he had not uncovered) and the shades of her nature that he could manage to learn - but never really  _seen_  her before this moment. Or rather, he'd refused to admit to the most superficial thing about her: her face, her loveliness…

He could admit to it now though: she was utterly lovely in her own way; even that scar on her cheek and her watchful eyes could not take away from that both exotic and familiar in the same breath. He was forced to concede the princess her beauty, because at this point not even a blind man would deny it, she was just  _that_  difficult a sight to ignore; made especially so because Robb knew that he had not seen loveliness so vibrant, so bold, in quite a long time. The reason didn't matter in the end. All he knew was that, try as he might, she was difficult to look away from… and in the same space that the admitted that, he also realized the thrill of danger that the admission comprised: the razor sharp blade that the power a woman like her could hold over a man who had forgotten what beauty looked like, the headiness it provoke, like strongwine in the belly.

Their eyes met from the distance, as if she'd felt him watching. She inclined her head to him in greeting and Robb found himself doing the same. The ghost of a smile hovered on her lips – small but true - as if she didn't quite dare decided whether she wanted to smile at him or not, before she gave him one of those glazed smiles that she had in her royal arsenal… and he found himself wanting to see the teasing tilt of that smile, whenever she thought of something that amused her, or the brightness of it when she'd rather laugh, but decided she should not. Her true expressions were few and far in between - most of the time she guarded them as closely she guarded her words around him. And perhaps it was for that reason that he liked them more: they felt real where all else about her felt practiced. Not false exactly, but still… she denied herself to all but those she kept closest – something for which Robb did not fault her for, but he had to admit he had not expected that kind of quiet, undemanding reserve from her - it made her the strangest Lannister he had ever met by far. Still, Robb could see that the princess tried to be reasonably open with him, approachable and as much her won true self as she dared to be, even though she never shed her title. And though she was very well controlled always, sometimes she slipped, as even the best are wont to do.

Those flashes of stubbornness or irritation, amusement or sharp irony, they were the ones that he most liked to catch. They were glimpses of the person that lived  _beneath_  the polish of her royal detachment, that finer manner that she'd been fed from birth. Those things, the not so careful things, were the woman he was bound to marry.

That fraction of a smile earlier, that pause between her eyes and her lips –  _that_  had been the true smile she had given him.

Robb felt Sansa's sharp elbow nudging him in the ribs (and for a very short moment, a heartbeat, he was back in Winterfell, a boy, with his sister elbowing him on the dinner table to remind him of manners).

"Remember what I told you about staring, brother." She whispered, and when he looked at her face she looked as impish as Arya did when she successfully got away with something she should not be doing. Robb gave her a twitch of one eyebrow, to dare her to say more. But she did not, she only laughed and let go of him in favour of their mother.

It didn't escape his notice just how serious his mother looked. In the back of his mind he heard again the words she had spoken to him, a warning given just a few days ago when his mother had seen him with the princess smiling at whatever she had said to him then - Robb did not even remember anymore. He did remember his mother's words though, those that she had spoke in a blank ton with eyes that wouldn't meet his, but that chose to stare at the table instead - at where Winterfell was on the map.

_'Take care, my son... the beautiful ones are always the best liars.'_

oOo

While he ate and spoke with the men around him, Robb had almost forgotten that he was not in the camp, having dinner among his bannermen and his royal guard – the sons of those bannermen. The people and the talk were the same, but the mood around them was not. Riverrun had a wide hall, lit by countless candles and tall ceiling that made for an open space. The noise was loud and lighthearted, resounding with laughter more often than usual. The subjects under discussion changed and interwove so often that Robb couldn't remember what he had been speaking a moment before once he changed topics. But it didn't matter: his men were unperturbed and merry once the music started and the dancing began, so did the true feast, one that celebrated a won war and the peace to come.

That was when the guests left their tables and started moving about, pockets forming here and there, of lords and ladies that exchanged talk among each other, before joining the dances. Robb did not leave his place and neither did his mother or the Greatjon, Karstark and Galbard Glover among others, but his sisters did. Arya found herself comfortable among the Sand Snakes – that was Lady Nym talking to her now, and by the looks of it, showing her how to hold a dagger before throwing it - while Sansa walked the hall pausing to address the guests, speaking to them seriously and charming them by turns, her smiles irresistible as far as men and women alike were concerned. As he watched her, Robb found himself wondering of the future: he had never held court, never been part of one, but Sansa had lived in King's Landing for years… and as he looked his sister gather lords and ladies about her, he found himself wondering if the Great Hall of Winterfell would ever be suited to something like this; if this was what courtly life was like, or if it would be like the councils during the war, always speaking to different lords, always negotiating for something.

He imagined it would be something of both… and admittedly, the thought alone seemed to tire him. But his attention was thankfully drawn away from his grim thoughts and to another corner of the hall by a burst of laughter very close to the high table… and there  _she_  was.

It seemed strange but he had managed to forget entirely about her and her beauty both, for as long as he was not looking at her. And now that she was within the line of his sight, he could not look away.

She was sitting by Dacey and Maege Mormont, Elia Sand by her side in a foreign-fashioned dress of a bold sunflower-yellow decorated by paler suns and a bronze belt, little bronze chains woven through her black braids. There were others around them, Mormont's men by the looks of them, and all seemed to be laughing at something the princess was saying. Dacey and Elia were flanking her closely and had Robb not known better, he would have said that their stance was almost protective – especially Dacey's, seeing that he knew her better and therefore could read her easier: her quick hazel eyes darted about every now and then, landing hard on some lord or lady whose eyes were not so kind.

Dacey had taken a shine to the princess, and in a way it gave Robb a sort of comfort to know it - or rather, to see that it was possible. All his men without exception had been hostile to the idea of Cercei Lannister's daughter as queen – whether she was a bastard or not - and Robb could not fault them for it. But he could not have said 'no', not to the terms she came with from her grandfather… and Robb suspected Tywin bloody Lannister had known that.

But he would not think of that. It was done now… and perhaps he was being foolish, but he did not resent it as much as he had in the beginning.

As he dared admit that to himself for the first time, Robb found himself smiling: despite knowing that beauty was like a blade without a hilt, he still thought he wouldn't mind holding it a bit, as if he thought himself as the one man that the blade wouldn't cut.

He should know better than that – the girl he spoke of was Cercei Lannister's daughter and the Kingslayer's bastard…

And there it was again, the unfairness of it all, what made that girl - the Iron Throne Princess - such a double-edged sword. Because despite knowing her so very superficially, Robb was nevertheless sure that there was more to her than a pretty face and scandalous name; that she was neither of her parents - though there seemed to be in her echoes of both - and that this much was obvious whenever he spoke to her, in the little gestures that she made, the small discoveries he could unravel from her, ever so slowly. And yet, she could not  _stop_  being her parents' daughter, her grandfather's niece, her brother's sister. All the reasons she was there were the reasons nobody wanted her there… which was a shame, since beneath her reserve and usual coolness of manner, the princess really did seem to be of a sweet sentiment. There was a certain charm about her, one that she yielded masterfully and - to her credit - with a transparent sincerity that precluded falseness, because she knowingly used her charm to amuse rather than weave webs around him. In fact, Robb had found that the princess was, in that particular context, quite the pleasant distraction – she knew how to be one spectacularly well and practiced her talent deliberately, and so well that when he concentrated in unravelling her, he forgot about other things that, at other times, weighted more heavily on his mind.

He could see the effect she had even now, as he watched her speak from a distance: her presence echoed around the hall like ripples of a thrown stone in a pond, loud and clear. The awareness that people had of her was sharp, the command she had over a room's attention, powerful. It would have been so even if she were not so notorious by association – but it was amplified by her name and birth, whether she liked it or not.

Heads did turn whichever way she went that night… and in that light, Robb found once again that her stubbornness showed: she refused to be guided by the hand in anything: not when she stood before him and looked him in the eye as an equal, nor around the camp among men that looked at her with contempt. Even now, when so many were only less obvious in their distaste, she did not seek the protective company of the Snakes or his sister. She'd rather face it down herself.

As irritating as the implicit challenge had been at first - especially that time when she dared seek (or was it ' _demand'?_ ) his company alone, as if she had a right to it - Robb could not help but respect her for it now that he understood her a little better. She did not act out of self-importance, not entirely, though there was a great deal of pride in her. Her actions seemed to be more motivated by a stubborn need to be acknowledged as worthy in her own right.

Now  _that_ , he could understand a little better. He had not been quite so disregarding ( _reckless perhaps?_ ) as she was being about it, but he certainly could understand the sentiment.

So he watched her. People moved about to meet and speak to other people, the company rotated like a wheel and the princess moved with it: she walked around the hall and waited until the next person that wanted to speak to her found her – and those were not for wanting. The princess greeted everyone with a pleasant smile and the polite interest of the well-mannered. Such a presence she made in all her lady's graces that Robb thought again, for the second time within mere hours, that he had not seen her at all before this night, not like this: this was a princess holding court that she had transformed herself into, walking about the hall and sizing up men and woman with a glance (he could  _see_  her doing it, how her mind calculated each and every person she met. Those eyes were like quicksilver and thought they hid much, not even she could hide it all).

Charm and grace and a hundred other subtle things she was yielding like a good warrior yields a sword, and it made her into a different person, warm and cheerful, bright as torch. She would have mesmerized the entire hall to her submission just as Sansa so easily did, had the stain of her family name and sins not been so heavy on her person. She sipped from her cup like a bird, spoke with many and smiled warmly to all. Anyone less observant might not have noticed, but there was a pattern to her movements: she did not actively join anyone except for Elia or Obara (and once or twice even Sansa) every once in a while, for a reprieve and a sincere smile. Rather, the princess waited for others to come to her presence and if that was because of arrogance or dignity, or perhaps a bit of both, Robb could not say.

Once or twice, he saw Prince Oberyn appear by her side and steal her for a simple-tuned turn or two on the dancefloor. She smiled at him with true smiles - small and real - and watchful eyes. There seemed to be a queer understanding between them, one that Robb did not feel he understood properly: they were both people of too many layers to be unveiled quite so easily. Still… she looked beautiful when she danced, as fascinating as an exotic oddity, and perhaps made even more unique because she was unlike any other person in that hall: trapped as she was between the foreignness of the dornishmen she had grown up with, so obviously different in their customs and appearance, and the familiarity of a westerosi born north of the Red Mountains. The princess was both and she was neither – and when she took the floor to dance, half the people in that hall stopped to stare… though Robb was sure, their reason for looking were different from his own.

Curiosity was a human feeling, Robb knew that, and a human weakness. He'd be curious about her too… hells, he  _was still_ very much so, but perhaps unlike all those that considered her a queer attraction in display, he had more solid reasons to ground his curiosity on: after all, she was to be his wife. And besides, simple curiosity was not the issue, as Robb soon came to observe. What he took issue with was that hunger he saw in so many eyes when that tracked her; a glinting intent like the one he sometimes saw being directed at himself, only, in the face of the Lannister princess, none bothered to be particularly subtle about it. They circled her with glinting eyes and sharp smiles and it was not hard to think of vultures, as if they were wanting to tear the flesh from her bones in their hurry, in their hunger. Robb knew the feeling well and he had never liked it, but he appreciated it even less now that it was directed to someone who was… well, who was a  _woman,_  for starters.

Even though she looked nothing like it now, it was still all too easy for him to recall the princess' tearful eyes that day in the middle of camp and it was because of that sharp memory that he could not easily forget she was as human as he was, made of flesh and blood and fears and doubts - and if one managed to strip her of that confidence that seemed to be as unshakable as a hundreds-year-old oak, the princess showed her youth so much that, had he been the boy he once was, Robb was sure it would have pierced him all the way to his heart. But though a boy any longer, the thinly-veiled bad manners she was treated with by some still made something inside him curl up in distaste. A distaste that soon translated into irritation, for her sake, and his own as well: whoever Myrcella Baratheon had been before didn't matter anymore; here and now she was the woman that their King was going to marry and she should be treated as such!

Even Sansa had warned him of it. Told him that Myrcella was not the enemy and she should be treated with caution, but not distain, lest he should make her into his enemy with his own hands. She was wise and very much right, his sister, but Robb could not explain that to all the lords that looked at the princess and only saw Cercei Lannister.

It made him wonder though, if the disliked her so much, why the bloody hell speak to her at all? Why not keep it to themselves? Or were they trying to prove some kind of superiority in her face, now that she was just a Lannister among strangers with no visible power to yield?

Robb scoffed in his cup, sipping his wine without truly tasting it at all. People who lose those they love always wanted revenge, on the gods if they can't find anyone else – and Robb knew that better some and more intimately than most - but if any of those lords and ladies down there thought they would find a soft target on the Lannister princess, they should take a long second look at her, and then mayhap a third. Robb himself knew little of her, but even that little he ha dgathered was enough to know that there was nothing anyone could say to Myrcella of House Baratheon that would even touch her, let alone hurt her. There was something sharp about her, something that had the potential of burning hot and cutting deep; a quality to her character that the princess painstakingly tried to hide beneath smiles and lighthearted wit and charm. Robb didn't know her well enough to be able to grasp  _what_  that quality about her was, but he did know that she was capable of many things and that those who'd think of hurting her should reflect over it well before acting.

(he would have thought her a schemer and a liar for how had she tried to hide her edges from the eyes of all about her, had she not been a bit freer with that part of herself when she was with him alone. That had been when he had understood that no amount of charm could ever make this princess open herself to him, even if Robb still remembered how to go about that kind of thing. But  _patience_  – patience just might work.)

He thought of those dark and hidden corners of Myrcella Baratheon's character, and wondered if perhaps he wouldn't mind seeing her unleashed upon those that thought it entertaining to ragger her about. Perhaps he'd even stand by and let it happen. She was a patient creature, this princess, but not even the most well-paced man or woman could be patient forever. Perhaps he was even curios: what would her fire look like, what would it feel like?

(But those were thoughts fueled by his cock, no doubt, and not his brain.)

Tolerance and serenity however, was all the princess showed to the guests of Riverrun that night. She carried herself with straight backed and unperturbed as she smiled and fended off subtle attacks with practiced cool courtesy. She could not bend anyone to her will just yet, but her defensive tactics were, Robb had to admit, utterly flawless. It must be disheartening, he thought to himself, amused, to bash against a wall that wouldn't even chirp, let alone yield. And that was what the princess reminded him of: a pretty thing surrounded by thick high walls painted with the shiny varnish of etiquette. It gave her an unreachable quality, creating a palpable distance between her person and everyone else. Her dignity was the bricks and her pride the mortar: and both formed an armor against which every look and sneer simply bounced off, leaving her untouched. She smiled pleasantly through it all, - a void smile on a warm face, but one that did not waver.

Robb wondered if it even amused her – that glint in her eye every now and then was not faked. What was she laughing at? Whom?

It stunned him for the entire width of two seconds when he realized that he would have liked to ask her, to hear her answer. He had no doubt that it would have made him smile. She could have a biting sort of humor, her backhanded irony teased him, and one that could easily become heavy-handed, if she pleased. It was her way of evening the field he supposed: they sneered at her, she made fun of them. Not an entirely  _right_  way perhaps… but fairness was rather scarce in her circumstance, so he didn't fault her for her little amusements at all.

"You forgot my advice so soon, Robb, I wonder if you even heard it at all."

Robb would be a liar if he said that his sister's voice did not surprise him. He turned his head to his right and found her there, sitting primly on an empty chair, looking at him with a small knowing smile. She was needling him… and it was working, Robb realized, amused at himself.

He could do that now – smile and laugh at himself. It had been a long time since he last could, but with his sisters, he had that freedom.

"I've forgotten nothing." Robb said, trying not to smile. "You look lovely this night, sister."

Sansa raised one thin eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. "Why, thank you brother. But perhaps your charms would be of better use if they were lavished upon she whom you have been staring at all evening."

Robb's lips twitched. His  _charm_  indeed! He'd long lost track of what charm he'd once had, but it seemed his sister was determined to make him find it again.

But he was not one to go gently into the night, as time had proved.

"So formal. I'm not getting on your nerves am I?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her. Sansa rolled her eyes at him openly and finally Robb smiled fully at the face she made. She seemed so composed and put together all the time that watching her release all that and fall back into a freer self was always a small pleasure... and a small relief.

"Not in the least." Sansa said haughtily, but then shook her head and just like that, the little game was over, and the eyes that looked at him were honest and true. "Really Robb, why don't you ask her for a dance?" and then her eyes got more serious still, a small pucker appearing between her brows. "Almost everyone is being insufferably rude to her, you know, throwing little quips left and right, as if she couldn't smell their intentions a mile away."

There is an edge of anger there that Robb suspects is not entirely on the Princess' behalf, but then again he can only imagine what his sister is thinking because even if he was callous enough to ask her right then, she would brush him off with a smile and a little shake of her head, and immediately change the subject in such a way that he'd be bound to let it go for another time.

Not that he would ask her anyway. Not now at least. Perhaps even not ever. Sansa's tales about King's Landing unleashed something in him that Robb tried very hard to keep under control. Something dark and dangerous and reckless that was no good for him or the men under him.

A strange smile curved Sansa's lips, one that was new to his sister and that never seized to surprise Robb for it: it was the smile of a woman that is having a bitter thought, but that amuses her anyways.

"It's almost funny, how cleanly she dispatches them." Sansa said, looking him in the eye then. "She used to do just the same in the Red Keep, but she was a lot less kind about it then - and much more amusing, I must admit. It made attending court almost bearable those last few months."

Robb felt a frown settle on his face but he kept silence. If there was one thing he had learned of his sister these past few weeks that she had been back with him, was that Sansa never dallied with words, even when she seemed to be speaking in circles. So this time Robb didn't even ask, he only stared at her without blinking for a moment or two, waiting for his sister to make her point, which she did after a weary sigh.

"If you let people indulge in their pettiness long enough, brother, at least one of them is bound to do something stupid." She said meaningfully…

He was about to ask his sister if she had someone particular in mind, but Karstark was nowhere close to the princess and the Blackfish was down there, shadowing her from afar, as Robb had asked him to, precisely for the purpose of preventing anything out of the line from happening.

"What are you proposing, then?" Robb asked, just for the sake of listening to what Sansa had to say, because when it came to these more subtle dealings of society, he had found out soon enough that he had little practice at them, and she all but too much of it. Sansa smiled, and made off with the surprise in her eyes with only one blink. She had been so stunned in the beginning, when he asked her for her opinion, and spoke with such care and hesitation. She was not used with being asked anything, speaking about anything or being listened to, and that she was now always seemed so surprise her. She should not have: she was home now and she was his sister. And if he had to encourage her to believe it every time, then he would.

"Come dance a turn with me. Then with Arya or mother. And  _then_  ask the princess for a dance as well."

Robb raised one eyebrow at her. "And my dancing with her will make so much of an impact that the lords and ladies will change their manners?" he didn't try to hide his disbelief at all, in the face of which Sansa only smiled however.

"It should remind them of who she is and why she's here at least. And that she will be their  _queen_  one day very soon."

Robb would have liked to say that perhaps that was the very reason for some of the resentment the Princess was being show, but he did not have the chance to do so. Sansa had not yet even finished her words when and unnatural hush fell over the hall, starting at the heart of the hall and spreading in ripples all the way to the corner where. Sensing the halting silence in the air, even the musicians stopped their tunes. The unnatural stillness of what had been a merry company just a moment before drew Robb's attention like a call… and it took one look over the Hall to know what had happened.

He saw it in his mind's eye as if he had truly seen it happening: the princess being begged for a dance; the music that went on and she that moved among the couples ever so gracefully with that glazed smile on her face… and then a foot in the wrong place, or a spin a little too careless and a partner all too eager not to steady her. As he looked he found himself thinking that, even if that same hall had been as silent as a crypt, nobody would have heard the princess make a sound as she fell.

And there she was now, sprawled on the stone floor of the hall, the curtain of gold that was her hair hiding her face so he could not see it at all, let alone read it, with a boy that hesitated for a moment too long – the look on his face transparent enough to see the smugness beneath - before he offered blank apologies and aid. Aid that the princess did not even have the time to decline (he could see, as she began to raise herself from the ground, that she had no intention of taking that outstretched hand) before the Blackfish grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and shoved him aside so forcefully that the youth staggered and would have fallen face first himself, had another not steadied him.

Robb felt his muscles tense and he began to rise, but Sansa's hand on his arm stopped him. "Wait." Was all she whispered as they watched the princess accept the Blackfish's hand and the old knight helped her up on her feet again.

She stood straight and tall and blank-faced as she brushed the dust off her skirts, and Robb knew then with a clarity he had not had before that he was going to marry a woman that was capable of absorbing all the strength of the blows she was dealt and that never would she ever grace anyone with any part of herself for it. If anyone down there was expecting to see her waver into a creature a little more easily hurt, they were bound to be disappointed: all she had for them was the inflexibility of cold-rolled steel, as if there were no emotion at all living beneath her face.

But what truly surprised Robb was how far she was willing to go to prove that she was not helpless nor was she harmless… and how easily she managed to do it – with a simple dance, just like Sansa said.

ooo

She had fallen on her face plenty of times before, literally and figuratively both. She knew what it was to lose track of your limbs and feel that small bite of panic, like the prick of a bee, before the hard surface of the earth slapped you, unforgivingly and without fail. She had in fact, known the feeling so intimately that she knew what would happen the moment her foot caught on another and she missed her next step. She knew and did not flail like a fish out of water, did not even flinch of gasp. She had not the time for it, it all happened so fast.

In that moment when she fell and her own weight did not matter, she was void of all thoughts and all worries… and she would not remember it after, but she knew that that was exactly what happiness tasted like, and freedom.

But the next moment, her palms slapped the stone of the floor and she felt the blow echo all the way to her shoulders. Her knees landed hard, taking all her weight and as the bite of pain came, so did the rush of anger, seething inside her with a hiss and a growl.

She did not see the way everyone around her froze, the fast turn of so many heads. Nor did she see the way Obara caught Elia's arm and froze her, not allowing her to come and help, knowing that she should not, not this time. These were the times when Myrcella was all on her own, when any kind of rushing held would have been seen as a weakness on her part… and she felt it too. She felt her own fingers shape into claws as the weight of the daggers hiding in both her boots became heavier than ever. But instead of reaching for one of them her nails bit into stone instead, hurting as she pulled herself up. But it didn't matter, none of it did. She was tearing at stones instead of that fool's face who thought he could do as he liked with her… and  _that_  more than anything made her want to unleash the true meaning of violence upon him.

She was a Princess, a Lannister, a creature of the desert. She was the daughter of a merciless queen and an honourless kingslayer, sister to a vicious king and niece to the cruelest man Westeros had ever known. She was born of lions and raised by vipers. She was the Myrcella who had outwitted the schemers of the Red Keep more than once and torn a man's throat out with her teeth!

...and she was as powerless as a new-born kitten.

The thought alone was enough to flood her veins with white-hot rage.

It was in moments like these, when she was closest to the madness inside her, that her mother's voice whispered to Myrcella the loudest. She was full of hisses, her mother, little secrets of contempt, threats, venom and cruelty… all things that Myrcella had known well and survived to, all things that she could reproduce most faithfully, well enough to curdle the blood in the veins of any man.

_And we would see then, if they dare do anything to me again!_

And it was in moments like these - when the thought of being feared started tasting the sweetest, when her bloodthirst was so deep that she could almost taste it – that Myrcella was grateful for the life she had led and the all the things that it had taught her. Because it was when she forgot herself utterly that some memories came back to her, undeniable and undaunted even by her rages. It was in times like these, when she wanted to become all that came easiest, that she could not forget the desolation of a life spent hating, and the bitterness that fear left behind. She knew all too well the price of vengeance and the taste of blood in her mouth. She could not unsee that, unfeel that – she  _would_  not until she died, she had  _promised_. And it really was in times like these that those promises she'd made to the dead and to the sand proved hardest to keep, and also, the strongest link to her own self.

Breath by scorching breath Myrcella pushed her feelings into something more controllable, something that she could mold and use, and something that would answer to her own nature without damaging it irreparably. Something in short, that would not alienate her so thoroughly from whom the person that Myrcella had chosen she would become… and something that would allow her to be cold and unflinching, because she could feel the weight of every eye in the room upon her.

And it was a good thing that sometime she could force her feelings into quiet submission so thoroughly, because by the time she took sir Brynden Tully's hand (later she might find it funny, how he had shoved that boy off like he too was a toothless kitten) and allowed him to help her to her feet with a softly spoken 'thank you', all that she had to present her audience was the cool face of a princess that could be anything, feel anything… or nothing at all. The whirlwind was still there beneath her flesh, but it swirled deeper and deeper inside her by the moment, out of sight and within control.

She would not cringe for them!

 _Lions don't cry and cower. We look our enemies in the eye and_ smile _!_

And though Myrcella knew she was a girl and not a lion at all, smile razors was exactly what she did when she looked at that little Lord whose name she did not even care to remember, and who looked far less steady on his feet now than a moment ago. And the expression on her face when she met his eyes must have been something indeed, because Myrcella say the boy gulp and fidget under her unblinking gaze. It must have made him forget that he was supposed to apologize then, because it took him a beat to remember it.

"I do beg your pardon, princess. I… I was not… I am a rather poor dancer, it seems, forgive me."

Myrcella felt her insides freeze over and finally, finally, she had a mastery of herself again. Lies were always the best catalyst to her reason and her sanity, she knew. She  _despised_  being lied to her face – it made her mind jerk into work whether she wanted to or not and it was the same as ever now. In a corner of her mind where the child she had once been still breathed, she almost felt sorry for that boy looking at her now, a little lord she probably would never meet again. What that boy didn't know was that she was a much better liar than he ever hoped to be, and that if she had a little more freedom, she would have crushed him like a bug beneath her boot and felt no remorse at all doing so.

_Stupid boy._

_No, I don't feel sorry for you at all. Men have died for less._

It was with an unfeeling face and unflinching eyes that she lied when she next spoke, making it almost believable, but too cold to truly be so, too sharp and deliberate.

"Oh, it makes no matter my Lord." And as the smile on her lips stretched just a fraction wider, she could swear that if feelings could make sounds, hers would sound like nails scratching on a board. "I have spent such a long time in Dorne that I have quite forgotten the steps of the more northern dances myself."

The idea had her by the throat even as the words left her mouth and Myrcella could do nothing to resist it. She was all that a princess should be for them, she had played her part flawlessly to her own detriment. And yet they were not satisfied. Fine! If there was no means for her to hurt them properly, she could still go behind their back and fuck them in their arses.

_If they want my blood, then my blood is what I'll give them. On my terms._

It took on glance, just one look in Elia's direction, and the understanding that Myrcella saw dawning on her friends face was immediate, absolute. When the octanes were ringing high, Elia's senses became sharper than a dagger's blade.

"Indeed, my Lord, the dances of my country are quite different." Elia spoke then, loud and clear and drawing attention of the surrounding faces to herself as she joined Myrcella in the eye of the storm, having a similar smile on her face as well, and a fire in her dark eyes. When they looked at each other, their expressions mirrored so closely that they might have been sisters. "And they are lovely as well. So lovely that it is a shame we have not danced to a dornish song yet."

It was the perfect distraction and Myrcella knew that as soon as Elia finished the words, there would be many of those that would beg her to show them these famous dances. They did, and the collective enthusiasm of that hall of people tasted a little of the hysterical. It was not Elia's dance they wanted but a reprieve from the stifling tension that had been caused by a straying foot. They wanted to glaze over the repercussions now that the act had been done, now that they had had their entertainment.

Myrcella despised them for it –  _cowards_ , she thought,  _not wanting to face my fury, not wanting to know what happens after the blow is dealt. Cowards and cravens all of them…_  - and yet she hid the feeling well beneath the right smiles at the right time.

It took moments for the snakes to take the floor and everyone else was delegated to the fringes. Ellaria too came to dance along her daughter and so did some other few dornishwomen that were traveling with their husbands… and when Myrcella did not move away – on the contrary she placed herself right in the middle of the fray - eyes lingered on her too, but the princess did not have eyes for any one of them.

It was on the King that she chose to look at when the first high note of the flute came calling and the first steps of the Dance of Blades were taken. And as she spun and turned and not once smiled, her eyes always found his and never wavered.

It was not for his benefit that she was doing this though the king may take it any way he liked. This is a show that was for everyone else. Let them remember who she was and why she was among them. Let them remember to whom she'd been sold and what she was bound to become. That a lion could never be toothless, no matter how pretty to smile of sweet the look... and that the next time they reached a hand at her she would bite it off.

ooo

The first note hit high and the dornishwomen started their dance all at the same time, as if they had done this a thousand times among themselves. Robb was not surprised to see her among them: she looked like a dark flower among so many bright silks of all the imaginable shades of red and gold and orange and bronze. And yet she moved with the same assurance they did… and her eyes didn't leave his for a moment.

She was angry, she must be – her face did not show it but her green eyes blazed. She watched him unflinchingly as she moved about following the foreign rhythm of smoky flutes, rolling percussion and tiny bells dusting the rhythm - a music that felt smoky and alluring as it felt like a warning - moving to a dance of fluttering arms, rolling shoulders and flexible waists that made the women look like birds about to take flight… or snakes. And the whole time, her green eyes did not look away from him, not even when a blade flew up in the air and she – as they all did – caught it with nimble fingers and started slicing the air with it as if she was cutting down enemies. She moved with ease and the way she held that long dagger was practiced – not reminiscent of a dance at all, but of someone used to slice flesh and bone. The unease of every single man and woman in that hall at that blatant threat of violence was palpable and yet the princess seemed miles away from them as she danced… and keeping her eyes steady with his own, Robb felt the same.

The fine tune of the dance lingered and called, and the dancers turned and met and their blades did too, the singing bite of steel meeting steel adding to the rhythm of the music. The princess turned and turned with that dagger in her hand slicing air, dark skirts fluttering about her, and Robb wondered if she'd rather be yielding it on someone alive. Though he could not think of that for too long – the question seemed inconsequential.

Was this a dance for seduction he wondered, as he watched her bend at the waist, arms stretched in front creating waves in the air, shoulder rolling with the motion? It was not so hard to believe. And the intent in her eyes, that blazing feeling that he could sense just beneath the surface,  _that_  was not something he could readily escape. She was a girl, and yet as she danced and looked at him as if she was about to jump over those steps and take a bite off him, Robb could not help but want to flinch in his seat. That unwavering gaze, bright as wildfire, her unsmiling mouth… she was full of intent and though he did not know  _what_  it was, it was not hard to imagine that she was being fueled by feelings that a moment ago she had concealed.

She must know what she was doing, know it better than the rest of the dornish for whom this kind of dance was perhaps normal. She must have known how much it would provoke, and yet she must not have cared. This was done to make a point, Robb knew. But knowing that did to mean immediate escape from her eyes, nor did it mean immunity to it.

He was aware that he was not the only one who could see it in her: the way she looked at him without fear, without modesty, bold and deliberate enough to be both a challenge and an invitation. Robb knew that, where he was almost fascinated by it, others would be threatened. He knew that, and he did not care in the least.

The music continued, picking up as the women spun with their arms out and their daggers above their heads, skirts fluttering out in a way that seemed they would go on forever, until the last boom of the drums came and they fell to the floor all at the same time, as if their strings were cut, bending forward as if bowing, their blades digging on the stone in front of them. Robb could imagine that if they had been dancing on sand, those sharp daggers would be hilt deep into it by the end.

A sharp kill on the final step.

They held their place for a moment longer, and then lifted up. The princess straightened her spine and kept looking at him even as the applause that had been a beat too late to come (courtesy perhaps of how much the dance had shocked the more reserved sensibilities of some, and how much it had entranced others) and she and the other dancers rose from knees on the floor. The dornishwomen were all smiling among themselves and enjoying the attention, but she did not. She was breathing hard with exertion and looking at him still, even as she took the blade to her hand and started walking towards him.

Perhaps her walking to him with a sharp blade in her hand equated to unease for some, but he did not feel even the barest brush of dread. There was not death in her eyes, but rather that fevered intensity that she had captured him with earlier, an expression that he had never seen in her before.

The men around him froze when she climbed those two steps of the high table and came as close to him as the table between them would allow. He did not blink as he watched her because he knew she would not. She had held his eyes without blinking the entire time.

_Stubborn girl…_

"Your grace." She said simply, just the barest touch of breathlessness in her tone, and yet it was enough... And when she offered the dagger to him with both her hands, he looked at it and did not miss the tension vibrating from the men around him, nor did he miss the smear of red on that blade, one that had not been there as she danced.

The meaning of it was lost on him, but her intention was clear.

Robb got up from his seat and reached out to take the dagger from her. (he could almost feel Karstark bristling close to him. He didn't need to see it to know that all their hands had gone to their sides looking for their swords. It would have been funny that a girl of sixteen years that was almost half his size could fray the nerves of fearless men of war so easily)

"Forgive me princess, but I am not familiar with dornish customs." He said as he pressed a thumb at the smear of blood on the cold steel and felt it smear easily. It was fresh. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

The small twitch of her lips told him of her amusement, but the expression was barely there and as fleeting as lightning: gone as soon as he noticed it.

"To keep it, your grace. That is all."

The princess inclined her head to him and without a word more, stepped down from the dais and for the very first time since this evening had started, she went to find refuge among the Snakes, who were all quick to snatch her away. And it was only when he saw Obara Sand draw her hand forward and wrap it in a white cloth that he knew it for certain: that was her blood on that blade.

The meaning of it was not lost on him anymore.

ooo

"No one should go that close to our King with a dagger in their hands."

But the Blackfish's snort was louder than Karstark's grumble. "She's little more than a child and yet you piss yourself."

Some chuckled, others outright laughed. There were more murmurs up and down their company, of how the Lannister princess was nothing like a child at all - louder and freer murmurs now that the princess had deigned to show to all with eyes how thoroughly bloody fuckable she could look if she had a mind to it.

"She's a Lannister." Eddard Karstark mumbled.  _She's the Kingslayer's bastard_  he would have probably liked to say as well, but he did not. The Greatjon laughed soundly.

"She's a  _girl_ … and a beauty at that." Because the Greatjon was always the one that would voice loud and clear all that the others were weary of saying. He spoke now with a laugh in his tone, and a tease in his eyes when they met Robb's and his huge hand patted Robb heavily on the back. "Even with that gash on her face, she's far prettier a sight than most."

 _Eye, she is. And Lannister or not, you'd have to be dead not to want a taste between her legs_... Robb found himself thinking  _…and I am quite alive._

He could pretend to be surprised at the turn of his thoughts, and perhaps a part of him was, a very small part. But the rest of him knew that he had been thinking something along those lines since the first moment she'd met his eyes, burning and fierce, and started that dance of hers of waves and daggered steps. Being seduced was something that felt so far back in the past that Robb had almost forgotten what it felt like. But that was what she'd done, wasn't it? Ever since that dance, Robb couldn't stop thinking about it, and it had astounded him, really, just how easily he had been led into it. Were men really such simple fools then? Was he the same? He had been so weary of her that the thought of being between her thighs had always been miles from his head. But not now though… and he enjoyed and resented it in the same measure. But he could burn in all seven hells before he got played by the cock from a girl! A  _Lannister_! He was not a green boy anymore, damn her!

And yet he could not stop thinking about her blood on that blade either, and how he was supposed to 'keep it, that is all'.

Robb sighed. He really was being a fool, wasn't he? Tying himself in knots just because a girl with golden hair had danced for him once. So what? What was the point anyway. It was just a dance, she was just a girl, albeit a shrewd one, and in the end, she could have no more power over him than he allowed.

Because that was what worried him so, was it not? Being deceived. Being played. Being betrayed...

Before to got up to ask Sansa for a dance, he speared a single thought on a question that had been banging around his skull for a while now: would he really be so distrustful of himself and of that girl with golden hair, if she were not the daughter of a family he despised? If she were not a Lannister.

But that was a useless question, because she  _was_  a Lannister and that would never change.

ooo

It had started with congratulations for the beautiful dance from before, which Myrcella had accepted as gracefully as her station commanded her to, while in her head reminding the lord who had introduced himself as Garret Paege of House Paege of Riverrun, that it had not been her dance at all, and that should he have come near her while she had been in those steps he could have lost a chunk of himself... preferably those thin lips and that unpleasant smile.

"Quite a beautiful dance, princess: so exotic. I was fascinated. As were many others, I am sure." the young man continued and those around him agreed, thought the ladies did not seem to appreciate it much. Did they think she did not notice those glances they exchanged or was it done deliberately openly so that she would notice?

Myrcella inclined her head. "I will be sure to tell the other ladies that danced with me that you said so, my lord."

_In short, go bother someone else!_

But of course not.

"Ah yes, the other ladies." And he leaned in a bit, seemingly conspiratorial if one wanted to judge by the smile on his face, as if he was confiding a secret to a friend. Myrcella barely kept herself form scowling and stepping backwards from his presence.

Gods but her patience was wearing thin!

"The Sand Snakes, was it? I am told they are all Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters and that he has four more hidden in Dorne. Is that true, princess?"

Perhaps he meant nothing by it. Perhaps he just wanted to be funny.

Perhaps he was a snooty bastard who thought he was so very smart and needed a good beating. Perhaps he would not smile so smugly, look at her with such amusement, if he knew what it was to taste Obara's spear, Tyene's poisons, Nymeria's arrows or Elia's fist. Perhaps she should to him a favor and take him to Prince Oberyn...

The thought made her smile.

"They are the Prince's daughters it is true. All of Dorne knows them as the Sand Snakes because of how deadly they can be." Myrcella knew that her eyes sparkled and her smile looked sharp enough to cut, right then. A small pause there, just to let it sink in. "Obara, Tyene and Nymeria are the eldest. Sarella comes after them but she is not here. And Elia is the eldest daughter of Ellaria Sand, the Prince's paramour. The others are too young to travel a land torn by war, I'm afraid, even if in the middle of their father's army."

_The army he brought to liberate your lands, my lord, and fight your war._

Myrcella smile the whole time, as if she was having the most pleasant conversation of all, as if she was utterly unaware of his meanings. Her meaning however did sink into the head of that Lord, or rather, he remembered himself. She could not be sure.

"Though Obella, Dorea and Loreza are fearless creatures and would have braved any army. But Prince Oberyn loves his daughters dearly and wisely chose to keep them safe, until they are grown enough to keep themselves safe."

One of the ladies to her left giggled. She could not be so much older than Myrcella herself.

"Indeed. And how queer that they call us 'northerners'."

At that Myrcella too could smile, and it was not fake at all.

"Everyone born north of the Red Mountains is a northerner to the Dornish." Myrcella said softly, perhaps a little more so than she should have, since she should never trust any real emotions to these people... and in immediately interested looks she got in return were proof of that.

"You are quite close to them, are you not princess?" one of the ladies asked, a small smile curling the end of her thin lips.

"I am. They have been my companions for a long time since and Princess Arianne of Dorne, who was my keeper, loves all her cousins dearly and always wanted them about her."

The same Lady as before, spoke again and this time her contempt was more obvious. Someone needed to teach her how to humiliate without being so obvious.

"It must be a relief to live in such a tolerant country."

Myrcella could have laughed. Dorne, a tolerant country. That was a joke she must remember to tell Elia tomorrow. Myrcella could see just the way she would snort at that, through the nose and then roll her eyes.

"I'm sure it must be." Myrcella said, knowing she should smile a little more wanly, but not really caring. Let them take it as they like.

"You are a lovely dancer as well, Princess." The lady said, turning to her fully now. What was her name? Why could she not remember it? Perhaps Myrcella had chosen not to remember because she did not want to to have a name in her mind to connect to that pale face, so that later, if the fancy struck her, she would not have easy means to make his girl cry a bit.

There were ways, she had found, to keep herself in check. This was one of them, even for those like herself, who could never forget anything.

"Thank you, my lady." Myrcella said instead.

"Such a shame that Eamon is not a better dancer. Imagine his disappointment at not having the honor of dancing with you again."

_Yes, imagine._

"I am trying." But this time Myrcella was just a short breath from chuckling herself. A disappointment indeed.

"Oh, I meant no offence, princess." The lady said then, and Myrcella fond herself raising her eyebrows to her, gracing the company with a true expression of surprise.

"You could never give any, my lady." Myrcella replied calmly, with an incline of her head.

"Princess Myrcella, good evening."

Myrcella turned to her left to see sir Brynden coming to her with two cups in his hand, one of which was clearly meant for her. She took it with thanks to the man. He could not have known she did not like to drink wine, no matter how sweet. But when she took a small sip, she found that it was not wine at all, but iced honeymilk, sweet and fresh that cooled her tongue. The surprise showed in her eyes in the sipped with which they seeked sir Brynden's face. The old knight smiled at her.

"Thank you, sir." Myrcella said softly, perhaps more so than she should have. Now everyone would know when she said thank you and she meant it, and when not.

"You're welcome, princess."

"How do you find the feast, your grace." He asked, and this time, instead of anything else she had seen in the faces of men and women most of the night, she saw real enquiry and even a touch of amusement – as if Brynden Tully already knew her answer

"Very entertaining, sir Brynden." Was all Myrcella said. And it had been. "Though after so much excitement, I'm afraid it has left me a little weary."

There was a snort from her left and Myrcella turned to see her Garret Page exchanging a look with his friends that seemed to speak louder than words and they all were wearing the same smirks on her face... smirks that lessened under Brynden Tully steel eye.

"Get on." The knight said looking at the boys hard enough that his eyes would have driven holes in their skulls. Myrcella felt like giving those boys a very wide smile indeed at that, but that would have been too openly pleased. When the boys did not move, the Blackfish's hard stare turned into a scowl. " _Now_ , boy. The princess is bored of your company and so am I."

Myrcella took the opportunity to sip form her cup, so that she did not have to say anything back... and openly have to lie. The boys scrambled away and the ladies bowed and left as well, leaving her in the company of sir Brynden who offered her his arm and escorted her out of the thick of it and into the outer halls where the air was cooler and fresher.

"I have no grounds upon which to speak you familiarly, but I would, if you allow me."

Myrcella was a bit surprised by the request, but then she remembered the way everyone would speak of this man, the kind of man they said he was, and how he had pushed that little lord off her before, when she had been tripped.

"I would do well, I think, to listen well to whatever you have to say, sir Brynden. Please, speak freely."

"I would council you to ignore them. They are all too young to know better and too pleased with themselves to realize that they're actually being bloody stupid."

Myrcella felt her mask slip at and break apart when faced with such blunt honesty. She looked upon the knight's face searching it. Was this a trap or was he being truthful? And if so, why? But when she did look at him she saw nothing but honesty in his face and that was when Myrcella decided that she could at least, give him some of her own honesty in return.

"I have lived for years in a place where they have cursed my family's name for the last twenty years, sir. A few overeager boys and their japes don't exactly shock me."

The Blackfish chuckled low at that, as if surprised and also amused by her – or was it her nerve? Myrcella didn't know. And then after a moment, he spoke again.

"I am sorry... for before. Aemon Frey is a stupid, cruel boy and I should have never allowed him near you."

And this time Myrcella did startle. So much that she took back her hand form his arm and looked at the knight as if he was something he had never seen before. She bit back the first words that came to her, the sharpest ones... and always the most unwise.

After another breath, she did speak.

"I appreciate the sentiment, sir, but you are not my keeper." Myrcella said and her voice didn't trembled from neither hurt nor anger. She sounded surer than she felt she would, and harder than she ever had, for this was one thing that she would always know.

 _I have_ no _keeper, nor do I want one._

The Blackfish have her a long look, as if he was trying to break her open and read her from within. And though his blue eyes were sharp and sure as swords - and familiar because the King and his mother and sister had those eyes - they were not unkind.

"I am not, you're right." And a smile that was not cheery as much as if was fierce, curved his lips. "Seems to me you hardly need one."

Myrcella felt her own smile before she had a mind to give it. "Thank you for that." Because at least he could be kind enough to say it, even if he might not mean it.

"No need to thank him if it's the truth. And it seems to be the general understanding of most lords and ladies in that hall as well."

Myrcella felt the rigidity set in her shoulders when she heard that voice, (thought she understood from that very moment that his tone was light and almost teasing really), coming from much closer than she had expected. She had taught herself to tell his voice apart from others, tried to be able to do it since the very first time she heard it, so that whenever she heard him speak near her she would know it was him and he might never catch her off guard. And yet he continually did, and Myrcella found herself wondering if perhaps it amused him, sneaking up to her like this.

 _Wolves like to hunt_ , a mocking voice whispered in her head. But she didn't need to hear her mother whisper to know how to answer that. She didn't need anything but her own self and what she knew.

_I am not his prey. He bought me to be his queen._

By the time Myrcella turned to greet him, she had a smile for him. "Your grace."

"Princess. Sir Brynden."

"My king."

But aside from a flicker of his eyes towards the old knight and an incline of his head, the King in the North was entirely too focused on Myrcella and she felt that focus now much more strongly than she ever had before. She had provoked him before. She had provoked the entire hall, all of them. They would probably be calling her names by the morrow… thought it would be fun to listen to the new stories they had to say. No doubt by first light there will be one according to which she'd fondled the king in front of the entire company of his guests.

The thought made her want to laugh.

"Am I interrupting?" the king asked coming closer.

"Of course not, your grace. Sir Brynden and I…" she caught the eye of the old knight and suddenly the whole thing was just too funny to ignore anymore. She had always prided herself with being able to see the light side of any situation and there was much to laugh about here. Paege's face when Brynden Tully had told him to fuck off was definitely one of them. "We were discussing the social utility of being courteous and maintaining an awareness of other people's sensitivities."

The King smiled and nodded with an  _'Ah'_  that immediately gave way to a chuckle. "So you were discussing Aemon Frey?"

Myrcella's eyebrows dived upwards before she could stop them and she was sure that her lips switched for a smile.

"I can't imagine how you would make that connection, your grace." She said lightly, a breath away from a smile… which really came when the Blackfish snorted.

"Neither can I. The bloody ungrateful whelp wouldn't recognize  _'courteous'_  if it slapped him in the face and not even squiring for the Dragonknight himself could change that."

Myrcella hid her smile behind her glass, but not for long. "I really don't think they have anything to be grateful about to  _me_ , sir Brynden." … and only too late did she realize that instead of saying 'he', meaning the poor witless Aemon Frey, she had said 'they'.

The night really had wearied her down. Much more so than she had noticed if she was slipping so badly.

Myrcella dared a look at the Blackfish and then the King… and her cup paused on the way to her mouth. They were looking at her much too strangely, staring really with an amount of disbelief that made her uncomfortable.

"Beggin your pardon, your grace, I must return to the feast." Sir Brynden said quite suddenly and Myrcella was left feeling even more out of pace. Had she really offended him that badly? But the knight didn't give her a chance to speak at all, he was out of sight before she could even open her mouth.

And the king was still looking at her that strange way, as if he could not quite make up his mind over what he was seeing.

"I hope I did not say something to offend him. He has been kind to me since I arrived here." Myrcella said, hoping to get at least some indication of where she had gone wrong.

The king shook his head, but said nothing. Myrcella finally lost her patience for silence.

"Forgive me your grace, but why are you looking at me that way?"

She saw the ghost of a smile pass through his features. It wasn't even real, but his expression softened with it.

"Looking at you how, princess?"

Was this a game to him now? Myrcella resisted the impulse to huff. Even if it was, she had had enough of playing for one night.

"As if you know something about me that I do not, your grace." She said with a voice that did not leave room for play of japing. She was serious and needed a serious answer. That should not give him that much of a surprise as it did: he was always far more serious than she after all.

And yet, the tempered look of disbelief did not fade from his eyes.

"You really don't know, do you?" he asked, as if he was asking himself. As if he could not quite believe it.

"There are a great many things that I don't know. Which one do you speak of?"

The King frowned, that small pucker between his brows bringing him back to the man that she could more easily recognize. There he was…

"There were certain terms that came with our marriage." He said then, speaking as frankly as he always did. The moment she heard those words however, Myrcella felt the cold seep into her spine, straightening it to the point of rigidity, setting her shoulders as if she was about to be dealt a blow. "Since the Trident was not north of the Neck it did not belong to the North, and therefore could not be part of its independent kingdom. Your grandfather and I were at odds a long time over that. I did not want to abandon men who'd fought for me, but keeping the Riverlands free would have bled them dry. So a bargain was proposed."

He paused, the barest hesitation in his voice, in his eyes. Myrcella wished she could tell him not to bother. She already knew the sort of bargain her grandfather had made – she had gotten the gist of it immediately, the same moment the King explained the conflict.

"A full royal pardon for the Riverlands, in exchange for making you a queen." The king said, and she was not a fool: she could sense that apology in his tone, the way he felt he was being callous by speaking of it. He should not have. He must have deduced by now that he was the very first to tell her of it.

Well, she had been wondering about this since the beginning had she not? Now she had her answer. She'd thought she was being exchanged for peace and union of two great bloodlines and perhaps that had been her grandfather's intent. But she had been  _accepted_  for entirely different reasons.

Perhaps she should be more surprised than she felt, but she was not. Her grandfather was the kind of man to know how to take advantage of any tragedy. And she could not fault the King either. Of what could she possibly fault him? He was as stuck as she was. But what Myrcella did find was a new cause of anger for the way she had been treated all night.

She had paraded around like a fool, acting the gracious princess and always being polite and courteous and for what? For whom? For people who didn't even bother to see her for what she was, who could not even look past her face. She doubted they even know how. And now she learned that not only was she instrumental for peace, but she was also the peace of ass traded to secure them a future without having to fear their houses being razed to the ground and their children take as wards and their taxes raised, their crops seized…

The beast in her roared in outrage and spite.  _Who are they to judge me? With what right do sheep judge a lion?_

Gods, she sounded just like her mother. How pathetic.

The child in her stomped her little feet, balling her hands in fists and pouting.  _Why do they hate me then?_   _If I'm the price for their pardon, for their precious peace, why do they show me such reckless malice?_

"I did not know." Myrcella heard herself say, flatly, co very coolly. She sounded so foreign, as if another woman was speaking. A woman that was wiser than the child and stronger than the beast.

A woman who was, at the very least, a better liar than both.

"I suppose it does not matter, since it changes nothing for me." And this was when she remembered that she was talking to a King, and one that had the good sense to offer her a hand. "But I do thank you for telling me, your grace."

But she sounded as cold as she felt. Gods how she wished she were alone! She wanted nothing more than to go to her room and collapse on the bed, and sleep for days. Sleep the exhaustion away, the irritation at having to put on so many faces, the utter frustration at herself and her family and her situation.

"Would you walk with me, princess?"

_No. No!_

"Of course, your grace." She said softly, taking his arm and following his lead down the many corridors and into the night. She let herself be led and it was in times like these, in times when she was frustrated with her own self as well, that she wished she was a little more like her mother and cared nothing for the consequences of her actions.

The sight of gardens in front of her was a surprise. She had not known that Riverrun had inner gardens – nor could she have, Myrcella told herself, since she had been there only for a day. As far as she could see, they were lovely, in an esthetically pleasing, useless way. The moonlight washed them with silver gleam, but the moon was only halved, and the shadows of that garden stood far longer and darker than the places the silver gleam of the moon touched. All the flowers looked different degrees of grey and white under that light… and perhaps that was what Myrcella liked best about that garden.

"My sister told me that you were being treated ungallantly by some and rudely by others. I apologize for that."

Myrcella found herself being jarred out of her own musings by that. This was not the first time that the king had apologized to her, and again, it was of no fault of his own that he was apologizing.

Did he really feel so responsible for everyone under his reign?

"There was nothing to warrant an apology, your grace." Myrcella said slowly, looking ahead though, choosing not to stare up in his face in the off chance that her own expression might show him a little more than she would have liked to. "Not everyone has Lady Sansa sense of fairness, or her kindness… or her tolerance. Indeed, few are those that possess even a inch of her fine qualities."

Nobody is quite like Lady Sansa in many ways, but the king did not need to hear all about his sister… because his sister was not who they were speaking of.

They arrived at a bench and as the king stopped, Myrcella let go of his arm to sit. She expected him to sit next to her, but instead he sat down in the other stool, in front of her.

There would be no escaping his eyes now.

"You handled everything without a hitch though, I must say." And his smile was almost playful, as if the thought amused him, and he leaned his elbows on his knees, getting just a bit closer, their eyes falling to one level. "When you started dancing with that dagger in your hand, I thought I saw Aemon Frey pale quite a bit."

This time it was her turn to smile. She felt daring tonight.

"If you were looking at Aemon Frey while I was dancing, then I must have been doing a very poor job of it, your grace."

The king laughed – for the very first time since he had been in her company and she in his, he laughed freely, and sincerely.

"You were doing a marvelous job of it. And quite an impressive one as well. The whole of the Riverlands will be talking about it for months."

Myrcella wanted to laugh. Life must be dull indeed in the Riverlands if her dancing was all that was worth a rumor… and Myrcella doubted that it was so.

But instead of saying that, she shrugged. "I'd rather they speak of my scandalous dance than my falling on my face."

The King's eyes were heavy on her face as she spoke, and his levity fell away a little as the silence stretched. "I think we both know you didn't fall, princess." He said carefully, never once blinking.

Myrcella sighed. "As we both know that it does not matter."

A side of his mouth, where most of his smiles seemed to begin, twitched a little upwards, but there was no cheerfulness in it.

"I promised you your safety, and yet, where I am able to guarantee the safety of a realm, I cannot seem to do it for just one princess. It does not seem to speak well of me, that."

Myrcella blinked against the admission. He was one for frankness, this King, and she had told herself to remember that well because he never seemed to be able to act differently. And yet, for all her observations and her so careful study of his person, he still managed to surprise her. Every time she exchanged words with him, the amount of things he seemed to say that were able to shock her only grew.

Who was this man?

"I am quite safe, your grace, and I  _feel_  safe as well." And what did it matter if it was not yet true? It didn't, not now. Now, in this darkness and alone with him, she could pretend better than in the harsh daylight. But did she have to? Could she not speak some truth as well? Truths of the likes of those that she usually hid from him, in particular? Myrcella paused hesitated, and then told her doubts to fuck off. Nothing good would ever come if she did not risk it. And the time had come to take her chances with this King. "I will doubtlessly have many difficulties adapting to the life that awaits me, but the court and its liars will never be one of them. I was raised in the Red Keep and Sunspear. I've been trained for this my whole life, even before I knew it was so. Believe me when I say, I know my way around a King's courtiers."

He looked at her with contemplation and Myrcella was sure that she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes as well, when she spoke to him so openly about things that she tried to make everyone avoid thinking of: that she was a creation of the world they had fought so hard to free themselves from: a world of liars and deceivers and little men playing their little games and pretty women with sharp smiles who spun their tales and ensnared their flies.

"What's your secret then, princess? To surviving as well as you have to all the liars and the treasons?"

Myrcella felt her heart thump in her chest. 'Surviving well' he said… Her hand had gone to her cheek before she even realized what she was doing and once she did realize it, she put if down swiftly, a little too swiftly perhaps. He must have noticed that, no doubt.

She should not allow herself to be quite so open with him, Myrcella knew that. She had to drop her guard to speak to him as honestly as his sharp eyes always demanded of her and once she did, she ended up giving away little bits of herself that she never meant to.

"I don't think there is a secret." she whispered, looking at her hands. But it was not to herself that she was speaking to, so she made herself look up into his eyes. Even in this darkness, his eyes shone pale and clear. He looked like he was made of white marble and the shadows that the planes of his face cast upon him sharpened all his features. "I think you get lied to one time too many before you really start believing that everyone is a liar unless proven otherwise."

He looked at her unflinchingly, without blinking and for the very first time, Myrcella did not feel observed, but rather  _seen_.

"So what is the answer? Do you trust no one?"

Myrcella felt a bitter smile begin on her lips, but she surprised it before it cold properly blood its ugly colors.

"The wiser answer to that would be 'no'." she said, trying to sound lighter, more cheery. She did not want to be such a droll conversationalist, but the Kings seemed to have a preference for heavy topics. "But alas, I do trust  _some_  people. Life would be so very lonely otherwise."

And it already is such a lonely, brutal and cruel affair. Why make it harder?

"Besides, allow me to point out, your grace, that I actually did enjoy my time at the feast tonight." Myrcella said, when it became clear that he would not break the silence, and his eyes so carefully studying her face were making her uncomfortable, especially so because they were under the cover of the night. She could not read his expression as cleanly as she would have liked, and every flicker on his features seemed like a secret he was yet stealing from her.

In a moment such as this, when tension felt high, but not the kind that made one afraid, Myrcella would rather speak than be silent. Silence was always more dangerous when the eyes looking at you were trying to see you truly.

"I'm glad you did." He said simply.

It wasn't enough.

"And some of the riverlords and especially the ladies were quite entertaining as well. Once or twice I must have been very close to laughing at quite the inappropriate moment."

His smile was knowing. "I did notice that, once or twice."

"Not too kind of me, I'm afraid." She admitted.

"And you didn't think to deflate any egos then? I'm sure you can, if you try."

"Oh that would have been truly foolish. Life has a way of puncturing self-inflated senses of worth in cruel ways. It hardly needs my help." Myrcella thought back at how easily she could spot a lie or a game sometimes, and how easily she too could be manipulated and bent against her will and played.  _To each their own. Valar Morgulis_. "Besides, I have found that all of us are not half as difficult as we think we are, and not nearly as mysterious."

"Is that true for you as well, princess?"

Myrcella didn't need to see the glint in his eyes to know that he was teasing: he'd been smiling at her. She remembered what Arianne had said to her once, and the memory made her smile despite herself.

"It is true about myself most of all, I suppose." Myrcella admitted with what she hoped was a placid expression on her face. People like her survived by letting people like that boy who had stumbled her to the ground believe that she was far much more complicated than she seemed; or by turns, far more simple. Lies were the way for a princess: nobody was supposed to know what lay even a small inch beneath your flesh: whenever enemies saw weakness, all they thought of was digging up for more. "After all, I am a woman, a princess and a Lannister; three very good reasons to be seen as the most deceitful creature on the earth."

She had meant it as a jape, a little twist on her own expense to show him that she did not take herself half as seriously as people seemed to think… but the King did not smile - he even lost what lightness that had been there before. There was a look in his eyes that told her he never would, not at such a thing.

Had she miss-stepped then? Was that frail truce between them broken?

"You should not let anyone believe that if it is not the truth." He said finally, with such gravity that Myrcella knew immediately he was not speaking to her lightly at all. That he was not even speaking to her as King, but as one person to another… and in that respect this may very well be the first conversation she was having with him. Which was probably why Myrcella felt like she had many years ago when she'd first stepped into the shores of the rocky sea of Dorne, feeling the water so shallow the first two steps and then on the third she had found depths beyond her own height, and sunk down in the sea unexpectedly, swallowing a good mouthful of salt water and even inhaling some for good measure.

Any moment now, she would sink, just like she had then.

She wanted to ask him how he supposed she was to change their minds… but instead she felt something else was needed. Something that was less of a challenge, and more of an acceptance.

Myrcella felt herself gulp down her doubts.

"I will try." She said, but even as the words left her mouth, they felt wrong. They were not enough – she did not know his standards yet, but it didn't matter: it was not enough for her own. "I will try my very hardest to make them see me as I am."

 _As I want to be_ , she thought, but did not say it out loud. There was no need for the King of Winter to know everything.

The king offered her a calm look, a sort of serenity that lacked the smug satisfaction she had hoped he could  _not_  get, when she said those words. And as she looked back at him, Myrcella felt relief.

"Tonight was quite the start in that direction. You seem determined to make a good impression upon everyone."

He made it sound so very pathetic… and perhaps it even was. But Myrcella was not daunted by that. Appearances were just that: they were the inch-thick matter that covered the second layer, which covered another, and then another still. Most people lived and died without knowing the truth of things or the people around them. Most people built themselves up because it was easier.

"If you don't give people something of yourself to see and speak and think of, they will fill the void themselves." She said carefully. "And I already know what they'd rather fill it with… Most people look at me and see my mother."  _You did as well, didn't you? Perhaps you still do._  But no, she was not quite crazy enough to tell him that. "Do you remember my mother at the feast of Winterfell, your grace?"

_Do you remember how rigidly she sat, how tightly she smiled and how bitter she was? Do you remember?_

From the look that passed in his face, the understanding in his eyes that was reflected in his little smile, Myrcella gathered that he did remember. And he understood that she had done all that she had done tonight to make people see that she was only Cercei Lannister's daughter, and not Cercei herself.

"It's bad enough that they'll gave to have a Lannister for a queen, but to have the same Lannister queen twice would be called cruel… and I'd rather not be known for cruelty."

She spoke so softly, she might as well be speaking to herself, but she knew that he heard her. She knew it, and felt that familiar bite of fear in her breast when she realized that she'd just given away too much, far too much. Everything seemed to bee to much with this King, and Myrcella could not control that.

But she could dominate it. She refused to be a slave to her own insecurities. He wanted to know of her, and she would give him that. Whether he believe her or not, that was an issue that was out of her hands. In any other case, she would not even have tried - Myrcella had never cared much for being judged, and people had a tendency to do just that the moment they heard the word Lannister. (…and his silence made her feel very much so, even though his eyes did not hint at it) But this was not any other case: she was going to marry this man. Sooner or later he would have to see her for who she was.

"I would ask you something, princess, and I would also ask that you speak truth to me in answer. If you cannot, then don't answer at all."

Myrcella look at up at him, but said nothing. If she would have the option of silence, then what harm was there in listening to his questions?

_Plenty of it. Silence is as good as an admission, a denial, a lie. Silence is out of your hands and left for him to decide._

"Did your family tell you nothing of me or where you were going when they send you off to the enemy?"

Of course…  _of course_  he would ask the one thing she had not expected him to. Though why not? Everyone was curious about her family. They were always asking and asking. And he asked for himself. It was better than most, at least.

Was He sounded both disbelieving and not so surprised at the same time and Myrcella suspected it was because he felt so weathered by Lannisters that nothing they could possibly do could surprise him anymore.

She wondered what he would have thought if she confessed to the same.

"I was not told anything but what whispers suggested and court rumors are often fables, especially when they are about an enemy."

And now he frowned at her. At least that was a familiar expression, though she had never seen his lips pulled into a smile as he frowned. It made for a dark expression, one Myrcella did not like.

"I suppose so…" The King said, as if speaking to himself. And then his eyes snapped back to hers… "Is that why you seemed to be so afraid of me, in the beginning? You thought I was some sorcerer that turned into a wolf at night, just like they say?"

Myrcella was caught a little off guard by his bluntness, but she knew better than to stagger under it now. Whether he spoke to her as the Winter King or Robb Stark, he always spoke directly and expected the same kinds of answers from her. And apparently, the more at ease he felt, the more his frankness increased.

"They say that about you, it's true." And Myrcella allowed herself to smile as she looked at him. "They also say that your wolf is a demon with a coat of steel fur and that he has eyes of fire." She gave him an amused look and saw that he was rolling his eyes. Her smile widened at the sight of it. He looked younger when he did that.

But he had asked for the truth and she had decided she would give it. Whether he believed it or not.

"There were plenty of people I could have asked who would have told me something true about you – your sister among them. I simply chose not to ask."

The question was in his eyes.  _'Why is that'_  the Winter King asked her with a small tilt of his head and a curious curve of his lips. And in that moment he was Robb Stark and Myrcella found that she could tell him exactly why that was… and regret it later, of course. But what mattered was she felt she  _could_  speak to him now. Robb Stark had a way of being expressive which was astounding, considering how unreadable his face got whenever he needed it to, as if he was carved from cold stone.

"I didn't want him to know that I was asking. My grandfather, I mean." And this time Myrcella looked away from him as she spoke, choosing to stare away at the bushes by the King's head instead, unable to speak of things that felt so private and still look a stranger in the eye. "It's one of the games he likes to play: he tells you his will and nothing else, leaving you to scurry about and find out for yourself, if you can. He likes to pit us against each other – his family, I mean – and see who comes out on top and how. I think he decides our worth this way." Myrcella took a deep steading breath and released it slowly. She still hadn't looked him in the eye, but she had not looked down to her hands either. And she  _would not_. She was not ashamed of anything. "So you see, had I asked questions, I would have been playing his game… he would have known about it, and from my questions he would have been able to deduce my thoughts and intentions."

Myrcella spoke flatly, tonelessly. She always found herself speaking that way whenever she was trying to hide her emotions on any matter. Perhaps, Myrcella thought absently, that more than anything gave away her emotions…

"I didn't want him to know my intentions. Why should I give him the pleasure of getting what he wanted so easily? So I didn't." and that was worth a smile. "There was no point anyway – I wouldn't learn anything from the Red Keep's overgrown butterflies that I would not learn myself a few weeks later."

Myrcella shrugged away her stubbornness, knowing it was not so easily explained away, but not wanting the King to understand that her stubbornness and that particular vindictive streak she had, had gotten the better of her and she had wanted to take her victories wherever she found them.

And in a sense, she had gotten them. The thought of it made her twist her lips in a small smile that was not entirely kind… nor should it be.

"Once he realized I was not going to go fluttering about, worrying over my upcoming nuptials to the realm's worst enemy, he had me placed under armed guard. Five knights to guard a little girl. It was quite hilarious for a while." She chuckled at the memory even now, but there was the sting of tears that only she knew how to recognize in herself. It started with a tightening of her throat, but never went farther than that. Myrcella never allowed herself certain freedoms and tears were one of them. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had cried in the last five years.

"He thought I planned an escape." Myrcella smiled at the memory, perhaps more sharply than she should have, more darkly than she could afford with Robb Stark there, but the pleasure was undeniable. "I had a good laugh about that in private. I doubt he thought much of it, but small victories are worth it."

"And were you? Planning an escape?" the king asked… and this time she could not held but look at him. He was looking at her with very thoughtful eyes, but there was something in his question that hinted at his amusement… as well as the utter seriousness with which he asked it.

Myrcella thought about it for a moment, thought about how to answer him. This time she did look to her hands, clasped as they were in her lap. "I thought of it. For quite a while actually, I thought of running to the Free Cities, or Dorne." Her smile was bitter, as had been her thoughts. "I know it was selfish and thoughtless, I knew it even then as I entertained the possibility, but it didn't stop me."

"We're all entitled to a bit of selfishness every not and then I suppose. Though I'm glad you didn't rung away." The King said and when she looked up to meet his eyes, they were kind and his face open. She gave him a small smile, one of those that didn't even look real enough, that was just a softening of her face… and he mirrored the expression just as carefully.

They really were just puppets dancing to strings, weren't they? Just like her uncle had told her not so long ago. He a King and she a Princess, and still neither of them was free. There seemed to be no freedom in this world. Not in Westerost at least, and not from those whose main duty was to honor their ancient, noble and powerful houses.

Myrcella couldn't help it: she leaned forward a bit, setting her elbows on her knees as he'd done, coming perhaps two palm's-width away from his face. "It's funny though, isn't it: how women can be traded like livestock and yet the fate of entire kingdoms can still rest on the whims of a girl."

His eyebrows jumped up a fraction. "You think the war would have gone on if you'd decided you liked the free cities better than the thought of being queen?"

Myrcella smiled. The thought of being queen, was it? But of course he would think that. What did he know of her after all?

"No, I don't think that." And she mean it. "I think my grandfather would have found a way to delay my coming, and in the meantime he would have scorched town after town to find me, leaving only bones behind, until I either came back on my own or anyone who could remotely recognize me brought me back in chains."

Myrcella knew that her tone was dry enough to scrap stones, but he must know that those were facts, so she spoke them as such. The sun shone by day, the moon by night, Tywin Lannister didn't readily give up his possessions. All facts of the same proportion.

The King wisely chose not to have anything to add to her assessment. But he looked at her as if he had just now seen her for the first time, or rather, as if he could not quite believe what he was staring at.

_Surprised, your grace?_

Her mother used to tell her that men like pretty women and silent women, preferably both in the same body and that intelligence is considered a fault if it comes with teats… but looking back into Robb Stark's face now, Myrcella doubted it very much. She had a feeling that a man such as him would find a silent woman dull and a stupid woman frustrating.

But it was only once the silence stretched that she realized that this was the longest she had spoken uninterrupted to him and that put her in a state of almost uncomfortable self-consciousness.

That is, until he interrupted the silence.

"So, allow me to ask, Princess… what are your intentions?"

Myrcella heard the humor in his voice but she turned her head to look at him despite that, smiling as coyly as she dared without being outright open about it. She could be playful with him, couldn't she?

"I suppose you'll be the first one to find them out, your grace."

He chuckled. "I rather like the sound of that. Like it better, I think, than the thought of another man knowing more about my marriage than I do, before the marriage actually happens."

The laughter escaped her before she could put her lips together and stop it.

"That would be most unfortunate, your grace, especially considering the man in question." But the laughter fluttering around the words, making them dance with good humor that had no reason at all but for the situation itself, and how she longed to laugh it away simple because it really was as dire as one could imagine it to be. And so it was that, despite the weight that lingered in her from all that had happened throughout the evening and even that pleasant revelation of just how much exactly her womb was worth… she felt the way she sounded, in that moment: lighter and merry for some reason that seemed too far along to understand, but not enough not to enjoy. It took a moment for Myrcella to realize that she was plainly – stupidly perhaps – happy that Robb Stark could have a lighthearted thought over this union that they were supposed to enter in. Their  _marriage_ , he called it. That he could think of it that way was a relief of sorts. She had not been able to do the same quite a while.

And there must have been something in it that moment, perhaps the sheer ridiculousness of it (of ludicrousness, was that more right?) to make him chuckle too.

It was in that kind of silly mood that a strange pause came over them both, a sort of weightlessness that linked the sound of her laughter stopping and his chuckle as well. It sounded like silence but it was not so quiet, not so stilled. There seemed to be something between them, an understanding perhaps, or something that pretended to be like it. A sort of truce maybe, that in that moment vibrated with self-awareness.

"I think we should get back to the feast, princess." The King said without looking away from her, his smile still on his lips and not yet melted. He looked so much better when he smiles.

But then his suggestion sunk in, and her lightness was brought back to the solid ground. She really didn't want to go back into that hall. She was tired of smiling and pretending. Tired of having to play around words and the wits of people which wearing silk gloves for fear of damaging sensibilities.

"I would love to, your grace, but I'm afraid I'm rather tired. I had wanted to retire after this." Myrcella said and already she could feel herself slipping back inside the princess. Even her words sounded different. More contained, so much more self-aware.

He felt it too – his smile faltered for a moment, and then achieved a whole new tilt, amused and mischievous almost. Myrcella would not have been able to imagine that kind of expression on his face, had she not seen it herself. It gave her pause.

"And if I were to ask you for a dance before you retire, would you grant it, Princess? I promise you, I won't let you fall even if you do trip on my feet." He added with a good-naturedly.

Myrcella blinked twice before she caught herself.

"Oh… of course." She said then, a little too fast and when the smile on his lips stretched a little wider she called herself a fool. A bit of quick thinking and she was back into her own good graces.

"But we really don't have to go inside for a dance." Myrcella added quickly, standing up as he did. The confused expression on his face was worth her own reaction from before – which was wonderful. It would be terribly unfair if she were the one to be so garbled every time the situation turned for the normal. "We can have our dance here."

His eyebrows flew up, and he looked both amused and disbelieving. But not contrary. "Here? With no music?"

 _With no one watching._  Myrcella felt that was a bit more important.

"I can imagine the music. And we can dance, just to dance." She said to him instead, feeling more uncertain than she ever had in a very long time. Feeling almost shy.

 _We can dance just for us…_ thought that was a thought she hardly dared to have.

"And you would like that?" he asked her. Immediately Myrcella nodded, though her heart was a little at her throat. She was doing it on purpose, she was. She wanted him to stop seeing her as the representation of the enemy and she wanted to see him as more than just the King she was marrying. Here and now, alone in the dark when they could have been anyone, that seemed like a pleasantly easy illusion to keep.

_Please say yes._

"I would prefer it."  _I would._

But then the King smiled at her… and it was the kind of smile she had seen sometimes on his face, but never directed at her. That was the kind of smile that was both amusement and happiness and openness to those feelings. It was unguarded and the king of expression that he only ever wore around his sisters, away from prying eyes. That was the king of smile that reminded her of a bright-eyed boy that she had met a long time ago and who had been the very first boy to ever turn her head when she was so very young and silly.

Seeing it on his face now made her gulp down a notch that had formed in her throat all of a sudden and that made Myrcella feel as if she could hardly swallow or breathe or anything remotely functional.

_Say yes._

He didn't, of course.

He offered her his hand instead, and Myrcella took it with a deep inhale of relief that came out a smile. He moved away from the stools and into the cobblers that cracked beneath her boots. His hand felt warm and his fingers rough… but it was nice.

She turned to face him and put a hand on his shoulder, her arm falling to her side just as his palm found her waist.

"What would you like to dance to, princess."

His face was so shadowed as he looked down at her that he looked as if he was made of sharp angles and high planes and Myrcella could hardly see his expression at all. But his smile, so very still on his face that she could hardly see it, but there none the less, was visible. It changed him whenever he chose to look at someone fondly. You could not help but be drawn in. Even though the echo of who he was was very much present in her mind - just like that night when Sansa had slept in her bed, his eyes too shined in the darkness like a wolf – Myrcella did not mind it that much. This was real and it was them alone, which was the most she could have asked for.

"You'll have to sing." He said, but instead he pulled her with him to the steps of a slow rhythm that he alone could hear. Myrcella followed.

"You wouldn't like that." She spun, hand slipping from his shoulder down his arm and to his hand, where he caught it and turned her around, back into his arms again. "Elia says I sound like a cat who is about to be drowned. I've never heard one, but it sounds unpleasant… just about as much as my singing."

He chuckled and the sound was different form so close. She could feel him laughing.

It was nice.

They moved around the shadows, dancing to their own tunes in their heads, but though perhaps to different songs, their steps were perfectly in tune. He moved slowly and Myrcella could tell from the way he held her that it had been a while since he last danced with anyone. She didn't know the northern dances well and she followed him with carefulness of someone used to improvising, someone who can find their own steps even in the dark. But his hands were gentle and his smile kind, his steps as measured as his touches and not once did she trip. And as they danced around each other the silence was only broken by her smiles and laughter every now and then, when her skirts caught on the occasional branch or her hair spun and hit him in caught him in the eye once.

He watched her… and though it was night and the moon was in the sky, she felt like she usually did when she was standing under the hot sun and dry wind, aiming her next arrow at the target, holding the bow with both hands. And the same as with the target, she could not really concentrate herself on the steps. The way he watched her spit her attention between the next spot where her foot should be and the awareness of his eyes on her face, watching her cheek or her nose, her eye or her lips or her scar, all shadowed by the night and yet, lit by the moon, because she had to look up at him to see him, and this time, she never one had looked away from his eyes. And she thought, as they danced in silence just a little while longer, this is what it feels to be beautiful."

o

TBC::: And OH MY GOD am i tired. this chapter almost killed me! let me know your thoughts though, you know how i love them.


	8. ...all the secrets you will tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Again split in two, or it would have been another 20.000 words monster and I had delayed updating long enough.
> 
> You will hear a lot of talk about ‘the Lannisters’ in this chapter, and just try to remember that when Sansa especially speaks of them, she means the Lannisters she knows, meaning those Lannisters that live in the Red Keep - the queen, her brothers, Tywin and the occasional family in court, who by extension of being courtiers would be just about the worst creature that can encumber this earth to Sansa.
> 
> And of course, when Catelyn speaks of Lannisters, her definition is quite broader, if you catch my drift. It’s all about perspective. This chapter weights a lot on that.
> 
> \- Ok, this took a lot longer and was a lot harder for me to write than I initially thought. Sansa proved to be a real challenge to write coherently… and I have honestly vowed that I will not touch her character again unless my life depends on it because she is excruciating. I love her to bits, but she exhausts me. So… hope you like, and to all the book-readers, please have patience with this chapter, cause I am one of the show-watches (and internet dabblers) and don’t know Sansa so well as I would like.

 

**_6_ ** _. … all the secrets you will tell_

_"There are three classes of people: those who see. Those who see when they are shown. Those who do not see."_

_Leonardo da Vinci_

Sansa understands her mother better now that she is a little older and not quite so blinded by that image of perfection she’d had as a child. In these last few weeks, they have spent most of their time together, speaking of what has happened since they last saw each other. Her mother tells her of how she’d left Winterfell and journeyed to King’s Landing, and then to the Vale. How she had returned to the Riverlands only to set for the Reach, and after that to Storm’s End, and then back to her home in Riverrun again. Catelyn Tully had traveled half of Westeros in a time when most noblewomen raised as her mother had been raised, had feared putting a single toe out of their high walls. Her mother’s bravery, the unflinching nerve, shake Sansa to the core. Catelyn Tully had ever been to her eldest daughter the model to live by, the perfect lady that Sansa always aspired to. And when she learned of the lengths her mother had been willing to go for them all, Sansa was astounded… and reassured. It comforted something in her when she learns that no matter what her mother’s lessons on propriety, she would have shoved a dagger through the soft flesh of Joffrey’s throat herself, if that would had brought her daughters back to her. Somehow, knowing that she was not alone in those violent thoughts made Sansa feel rather better about having them.

And there she goes, dissecting herself again…

It had been such a long time since Sansa last thought she needed anyone’s permission or blessing on anything having to do with her own thoughts – her mind being the only thing over which she had indisputable dominion over, a small freedom that she had guarded jealously, to the point where it became her sanctuary. But being back among family proved that this independence was not quite so real now that Sansa did not wish to be alone with her head anymore. The fact was that Sansa longed so much for her family’s love and approval that to have it, she was willing to appear as whatever they wanted her to. She did not want to be changed for them, even though she was. She wanted to be someone they could love without regret.

It was no small thing to Sansa to try and tuck aside all that she had made herself into and teach herself to be the girl of Winterfell once more. A person could not be built in a day and the same, an identity and a way of thinking could not be shed in a day either, no matter how much Sansa might wish it. But she kept trying, because in her heart she knew that neither could ever be done completely. Pieces of one self or the other always remained. They lingered in a past that was the foundation of her being, in memories that were unwilling to be denied and that that lived frail lives on their own, hushed and stilled, like echoes in the dark. People were made of layers and that was a truth that was of comfort to Sansa, because it meant that nothing ever got lost. Once she admitted that, the real matter became bringing forth from dusty corners the right layers of yourself, and letting them see light. So she strived every moment gladly, to be the person she chose to be.

Some would say she was lying to herself and all those around her… and perhaps she was, but that was not all the truth. Sansa honestly wanted to fit in to where she belonged again, and the person she had learned to be in the Red Keep felt like an old dress that fit ill and one she wanted to be rid of. And so what if she had nightmares and scars, if she could wriggle out lies and intentions just from looking at the way a man moved or if he blinked too many times; or if she could lie so well it had saved her life? So what if she felt oftentimes deformed on the inside, and ugly, and that sometimes she felt utterly lost as well, even among friendly faces, even among family? So what? She did not care, it did not matter. All that would be mended in time. Her family _loved_ her, and if only for that Sansa knew she would find a way to be worthy of that love. She did not want to be for them someone who had once been a daughter, a sister; someone who only looked like Sansa Stark. She would be more than that, and learn to live again as her father had meant to teach her – as Robb did every day. _I am a Stark_ , she had always told herself in the Red Keep to find the strength inside herself. _I too can be brave **[1]**, I too can be strong. I too can do whatever I need to do._

It was the deepest fear she'd had, once she got back: that she would seem to them so changed, so altered that her mother and brother and sister would reject her despite their love. Once the first shock of being free was past, Sansa had felt so foreign, so misplaced. She’d felt more alike to Myrcella, than she had to her family… and that had hurt Sansa deeply. Which was why it was so very important for her to know that even her gentle lady mother was capable of anything and everything for her children's survival. That fierceness that lived in Catelyn Tully, in her brother, in her sister - Sansa could see herself in that, she could find herself in it. But that she can find the same brutality even in her gentle lady mother eases Sansa’s soul more than anything; it becomes proof that perhaps Cersei and her monstrous son have not succeeded in warping her as completely as the queen had liked to make Sansa believe. Sansa is still her mother's daughter, and she can say it pridefully.

But she is also herself, a woman grown and different, in all the good and the bad. Which is why nowadays Sansa can truly see her mother for what she is: a woman as flawed and mortal as any other, and not infallible as Sansa had once believed. Catelyn Tully is wise and beautiful and brave… and to Sansa's mind, her mother's only flaw was that she was the perfect product of the world she was born in and shaped by. Her mother believed that there was a way the world worked and it could not be any other way but that… and failed to understand that sometimes the world functioned in more fluid ways and that there is no absolute truth, but rather as many truths as there are eyes to see them.

But Catelyn Tully could not truly bend her ways, even if she wanted: she looked at Jon Snow and saw only dishonor, her husband’s disloyalty and her own shame. She looked at Petyr Baelish and found the idea of him lying to her unconceivable, because he had once loved her… or so he claimed. And she looked at Myrcella now and saw only an extension of Cersei and Jamie Lannister and could not, in her rigidity of vision, see anything at all that mattered beyond that.

Sansa on the other hand had her own eyes from which she saw the world and they saw things differently. She felt a good many feelings when she thought of Petyr Baelysh, for example, and none of them were kind; almost all of them centered around his blood, warm and sticky, on her hands. The thought of it thrilled her deeply, as deeply as her hatred for them man sprung from. Sansa found herself particularly bloodthirsty whenever she thought of his slimy smile, those soft small hands. How she longed to slit steel through that soft white throat, lick his blood off her fingers...

But that was over now. No use in wasting time over plans that were too far off in the future to contemplate.

Thinking of Jon on the other hand, was entirely different. Jon called to her heart, same as Bran and Rickon did, same as Robb had. But unlike her other brothers, there was a certain sharp guilt there with Jon, one that Sansa had discovered at the most lonely point of her imprisonment at the Red Keep. She had dreamt of all her family during her captivity, of her home and even the godswood. Most of her dreams were about flying away from the Red Keep, soaring high into the sky, like the little bird she was so often referred as, and finding freedom. And just as she dreamt of the sky and the air between a pair of wings she did not have, Sansa also dreamt of home. But her dreams of Winterfell had been plagued with deep anxiety and the sharp longing of the imposable, so much so that she sometimes dreaded them more than monsters in her nightmares. When loneliness felt unbearable, the only way to make it worse had been to think of her family and wish she were beside them. And yet, there had been days when Sansa would have given her right hand for the sight of a single friendly face among enemies. Even _his_ face would have been welcome, her bastard brother’s face, him whom she had thought of last, whom she had almost forgotten entirely… him who looked more like her father than any of her other brothers. Even his… until one day there was no difference anymore between ‘ _half-brother’_ and ‘ _my brother’_ , between bastard and trueborn. No difference at all, because he would be family, he would be her blood.

It had not been such a shocking revelation, on the contrary: it had come naturally, as her awareness of the true nature of the world had grown. Details from a previous life had faded, just like a great many other things that had had seemed important once, had dwindled into ridiculousness in the Red Keep. Porcelain, ivory, steel… she’d told herself that every time she’d felt like she was about to shatter.

Even though it had been almost three years ago, Sansa could still remember Joffrey's smug face when he told her that Robb and her mother had been killed and declared with sick joy that she was now the last Stark left alive. They had thought Bran and Rickon dead too at the time... and Sansa still remembered how she had cried and cried until there were no more tears left in her, no more pain to feel or sobs to choke on. The world had come at an end, all hope had left her. She had contemplated the height of the towers of the Red Keep that night, and the cliffs of Blackwater Bay. She had known what would happen as surely as if it had already come to pass. She knew that Tywin Lannister would start his plans to marry her off to someone and control the North through her. She had even an inkling as to who it might be. She had been filled with the fire of revenge then, and sworn to herself that the north would never forget as long as even a single drop of Stark blood flowed through her veins. The thoughts of heights and impossible drops were shed into those flames and a new creature arose from them, like the dragons of old: a creature hungry for flesh and blood and unrepentant, unapologizing. Sansa remembered how she had sworn her revenge with tears and with blood and promised to herself and all her dead, that she would kill them _all_![2] and burn their bodies; that she would crack the steps of Baelor, set fire to the great sept and raze the Red Keep to the ground if only she be given the smallest chance. She would marry the heir to Casterly Rock, yes, have a son… and then kill Jamie Lannister or Tyrion or whoever they chose for her. Kill him slowly, with sweet poisons and sweeter words.

_In my womb I will carry my avengeance **[3]**...               _

It had been with those thoughts that she had slept that night, so late that the night was as its deepest, at its darkest. And that had been the night that she had dreamt of Jon Snow... and that it had been a dream unlike any other dream before it. She had dreamed of having four legs instead of two or even wings; she had dreamed of hunting in deep woods, with the scent of snow and deer and blood, warm on her snout as she sunk her jaws into its throat and ripped it out and feasted on its insides and hard pieces of bloody meat and entrails (the taste of it had lingered even when she woke, it had been so real). And then she had run through hills, walked among men in black and found him who looked so much like her father that Sansa had almost tackled him to the ground in her haste to lick his face, leaving bloody prints on Jon’s pale cheeks. Because it had been Jon, she knew that, she smelled it and knew it without knowing why or how. Not that it had mattered. She still remembered how he had laughed. It had been a foreign sound. Jon had so rarely laughed in Winterfell... not that Sansa had cared at the time. But she cared now, very much so.

She had woken feeling dried tears on her cheeks, mixing with the taste or iron and salt in her mouth and a new resolve in her heart. Oh, she had still wanted revenge with the same fire she had the night before, and from then on it had been that thirst that had propelled her forward through the most hopeless situations. But Sansa had felt something else too: she was not quite as lost as she thought yet, no. She was not alone in the world. She still had one brother left.

Looking back on that night made Sansa think it was no wonder what she had become after it… though sometimes she did wonder why she feared rejection so, by the very same family for whom she had transformed into such a creature for. She had changed to survive when she had thought nobody was left to save her; to avenge them. A wolf she had seen herself becoming, a true killer of the night: silent and stealthy, but her bite of death so sweet you’d never know it until it was too late, her lies as pure as her pretty face allowed them. A killer as the Red Keep had demanded. A bloodless liar.

And there it was, the reason why. Sansa knew that winter demanded its killers to be honest, as it was itself. Winter was not the games of puny castles. Winter was the falling darkness and all the things that dwelled within it. An honest killer - though so many, for some reason, confused that with mercy. Those were usually the first to die. Winter is ruthless, it is cruel and merciless, never pretended to be anything but… and no Stark ever forgot it.

_Winter is coming._

But those were thoughts from a different time, thoughts of a different creature. Sansa could be simpler now, she could survive in honesty… or something like it. Even though she had not forgotten – _could not_ forget – that there were still wrongs to avenge, blood she yet longed to spill. Sometimes, when she remembered what she had suffered, she thought her thirst for it would never quench. Those were dark thoughts that Sansa did not like to indulge in often, but they were thoughts that made her more into a wolf than she had ever been as well, and Sansa liked _that_ very much. Many had forgotten, in the stray of her father’s so remarkable honor, that direwolves were creatures of winter, that they scented blood and hunted it better than any other; that the Kings of Winter had the honor and _ruthlessness_ of the First Men that bid them to slit a man’s throat with their own swords upon the roots of their weirwoods and feed their honest gods their red bounty… and that Sansa and Arya and their brothers were of that ancient old blood, of the same brutal gods and red-stained swords.

Which was also the reason why, coincidentally, Sansa Stark could look at the southern princess in their midst now and find herself… inspired by the many possibilities that Myrcella presented. If she had been a wolf, Sansa would be licking her chops at the thought of it. Hunger growled in her too... though Sansa had to admit, she truly did mean the princess no harm. Indeed, though Myrcella was too proud to be pitied and too strong to be helpless, sometimes… just _sometimes_ Sansa looked at the princess and, being so intimately familiar with how very hard she tried, Sansa had the urge to feel _sorry_ for her, of all things (something that Myrcella would have taken offence over, no doubt). But still, Sansa sometimes wanted to tell her: _it’s useless, stop trying to win them over. They will never love you. You will forever be their enemy…_ and yet, Sansa had a feeling that the princess already knew that. Which meant this was a hand that Myrcella was playing, and if Sansa had to guess, she’d say that the princess was just a patient enough sort of person to play for the long run. Oh, Sansa liked the princess well enough to be sure, but there was no doubt in her mind that the quiet lion in their midst was not to be underestimated.

But - and here came the important part - she disagreed with her lady mother under one very important point: Lady Catelyn had been hard towards Myrcella, unmovable from the start, making her disapproval known in no uncertain terms. Sansa on the other hand preferred a subtler approach, simply because of the sheer number of further possibilities it could offer: you should never to openly challenge a threat that was merely a potential one, lest they prove to have their usefulness as an ally. You keep them close instead, (but never too close!) and learn their ways. Learn what they want and possibly how to cage them in, how to control them. 

Now, for the sake of honesty, Sansa had to give it to the princess: controlling Myrcella was easier said than done. Though by nature and inclination the princess was rational, meticulous and organized, she was also capable of the most spontaneous bursts of impulsivity when one least expected it, making predicting her reactions a guessing game rather than a study. Sansa had seen firsthand just how unpredictable Myrcella could be when she had a mind to it. The princess hated being manipulated with a passion that she demonstrated for almost nothing else and could smell the intention of it from a mile away somehow – which was probably why controlling her was like trying to control wildfire sometimes. In that, the Princess was so remarkably like Joffrey that it seemed she had taken a page off her brother’s book - lacking his insanity, obviously... which, one could argue, probably made the princess more vicious than her King brother, because where Joffrey was mindless, Myrcella was always perfectly aware of the damage she was causing. But though she might seem chaotic to some, Sansa could see the truth for what it was: everything Myrcella did was almost obsessively planned out.

But, for all her shrewdness and unpredictably fickle morality, Myrcella was human and all humans were fallible in their desires: we _all_ want something. Myrcella was no different, though perhaps her desires might be a little more shrouded in mystery than most. Find out what those were however and Myrcella, like any other person, could be brought to heel.

And Sansa thought she had a fairly good idea of what the princess wanted… but it was only an idea, after all.

“What do you mean?” Robb had asked, a little confused when Sansa had broached the subject to him one afternoon. They were alone with mother in their uncle’s solar, which had been temporarily given to Robb to run his affairs until their departure further north.

Sansa took great care in speaking, in forming the words to the right idea.

“You must know what her purpose she is to serve here, surely? Or rather, the purpose Tywin Lannister _wants_ her to serve.” Because Sansa felt there was considerable difference between those two concepts.

“A political hold over the north, through its queen.” Robb droned, almost in a sigh as he leant back on his seat. He was probably much too tired of speaking of this. No doubt his bannermen had broached the same subject at every turn.

“Yes, but that’s just the obvious part of it.” Sansa said carefully and when her brother’s eyes found hers, there was no judgment there, only curiosity. ‘ _Go on_ ’ his eyes seemed to tell her. It was what they always told her. And how well she loved him for it… “He wanted Myrcella to be the mother of you heir, to be your queen and all that comes with it, but what I think he most wants is her to be your _wife_.”

Sansa watched the comprehension dawn in Robb’s blue eyes, watched the heavy frown darken his features and from the corner of her eyes she saw her mother too, putting down her embroidery, now not even pretending to disregard the conversation anymore.

Sansa continued, sounding surer of herself as she spoke, no matter how she felt about what she was saying.

“She’s young, beautiful and charming enough to impress all the Red Keep and Tywin himself… and you’re only a man after all.” Robb raised a single amused eyebrow at that, his lips twitching up at one corner. _He doesn’t need to be annoyed at being underestimated,_ Sansa realized with a tinge of satisfaction. _He has nothing to prove to anyone: he’s already won_. “Don’t you see how perfect it would seem to him: a Lannister spy at the very heart of your Kingdom, in your _bed_ of all places?” she went on, speaking of what she had seen and heard in the Red Keep, but in not so many words. Because this here was the important part. “I don’t know what Tywin Lannister’s plans are, but I doubt he considers the North’s independence as a fact. He could not defeat you in the field and he could not win the war with the North in the way he might have liked, but he will _never_ give up as long as he takes breath.” Sansa knew that for a fact. She knew enough of the man she spoke of to be sure of it. “I think he is just biding his time to rectify and situation in some way and I think that Myrcella is bound to play a pivotal role in that, because Tywin Lannister only ever trusts those with his own blood in his veins for that.”

“I’ve already heard all this.” Robb said again, looking towards mother. Yes, Sansa knew what her mother thought; _all_ knew what her mother thought about this. But there was a little secret that Sansa was keeping: something she knew to be true and that so very few people seemed to realize.

She leaned forward a bit, instinctively – an act of gentle insistence, insisting to be heard as if Robb would deny her.

“I know you have. But most don’t seem to realize that Tywin Lannister has a fundamental flaw to his character.” And as she had anticipated, that drew Robb’s attention sharply. “The man is so consumed by the _idea_ of his family, that it blinds him to the _reality_ of his actual family completely[4]. If it did not, he might have seen it immediately that Myrcella is not the best person to pin such hopes and plans on, Lannister or not.” Sansa finally said, dropping that truth on her brother with a certain amount of dread for his reaction. In turn Robb’s frown did not ease but he did not break her suggestion outright. On the contrary…

“What is it that you’re talking about Sansa?” he asked, more confused than ever as their mother reached them and sat in the chair near to Sansa’s looking at her daughter in the face.

Sansa took a deep breath and looked at her hands, clasped together tightly in her lap. She had to say this. She was not afraid of saying it, she knew it to be true… but what would her family think of her once she was done? What kind of mind was able to come up with such mercenary ideas, they would wonder.

It was no matter, Sansa decided. She was doing this for Robb and for their family, which was far more important than her own wishes and needs. She would deal with the repercussions of all her actions when they came. After all… aside from being worthy of their love, you were to be honest too with your family, weren’t you?

“She could be an asset to you… if you know how to make her yours.” Sansa said slowly, and before Robb’s shock over why she thought that made itself know into words, she tried to explain why she thought that.

As all those that had been directly involved in the war of five kings, Myrcella too had lived through strenuous circumstances (though so very few seemed to be privy to all the details of those circumstances), and as anyone might - as Sansa herself had - the princes had been shaped and marked by her experiences. Shaped into someone that might turn out to be an asset of value for Robb, and indeed, all the Starks that were to have the princess in their midst, _if_ they were able to work her the right way. There was a dichotomy in nature in the princess, something that Sansa had found out slowly through careful observation, and that was what she was trying to explain it, when her mother interrupted.

“She is a Lannister.” Her mother said, eyes flickering from her daughter to her son. “Her loyalty will always be with the Lannisters first.”

“Oh, she _is_ a Lannister, there’s no doubt about that.” Sansa agreed. Myrcella too was capable of cruelty as much as any of them – just as much as anyone really, if Sansa were to be honest - and sometimes it seemed to Sansa that the only reason the Princess had survived all that had happened to her, was an incapacity for any genuine feeling at all. Indeed, there was something in Myrcella’s cold and calculating intellect, in that uncompromising, total way she set herself about any goal, which reminded Sansa of Tywin Lannister’s way of doing things. “But taking her and her loyalties for granted is a mistake that Tywin Lannister has already made, and it’s not one you should so readily follow him on, Robb.”

Sansa wanted to be understood, though there was something like anxiety in her that was scattering her thoughts, making her less precise than usual. This was a matter too important to be silent about, but it was also so very delicate. Sansa knew that she had to make herself clear in a way that made sense, in a way that could convey sensations, feelings, knowledge that was gathered as if form the edge of a blade through careful observation. There had been those in the Red Keep that had been stunned with the princess: among all Lannisters, hers were the hair that shone most golden, the eyes that most recalled the thick green hue of wildfire and which shone like lit torches out of her skull sometimes. Indeed, tall and lean and haughty, outshining the queen by leaps and bounds, Myrcella had looked the most Lannister of them all.

But she was so different, so stubbornly her own self that she was unassailable in her convictions, especially when the grapping hands had been her family’s.

“Myrcella and Tommen were always different from Joffrey and their parents both.” Sansa started again. “Especially Myrcella: she was always braver than her brothers and brighter and more confident[5]. But what’s more important now is that she has been so cut off from King’s Landing for so long, in a country so foreign that she’s grown into someone alienated from the ways and especially the interests of her family almost completely. I think they’ve lost her.”

They had lost her to Dorne and dornish ambiguous morals; to Obara Sand’s honest love and Elia Sand’s true friendship. And there was something else too, something that Myrcella nor anyone else about her ever spoke of, but still Sansa wondered if the Lannisters had not lost Myrcella’s young heart to a dornish prince’s love as well. But there was more to it than simple sway of emotion. The scent of horrific truths clung about the Princess always, her history was carved on her skin – undeniable. Whatever casual horrors may have happened on her, they seemed to have changed her even more than Sansa's own had, because unlike Sansa, Myrcella made no effort at all to reconcile who she had become with who her family demanded her to be. On the contrary, the princess resisted her family’s efforts to shape her back to their own image with a kind of lingering, silent resentment - especially where Cersei was concerned. There was much that went unsaid between those two, and fueled the fire between them like a hot summer wind.

Myrcella's differences with her Lannister family were hardly of the obvious kind, but they whispered loudly in the small details, things that people without an eye for the invisible perhaps would miss (but Sansa was not one of those people): details like Myrcella’s way of understanding affection and the way she chose to acknowledge the existence of limits, though sometimes she too failed at practicing them… or her refusal to simply give trust and respect when the only claim for it was shared blood. It had seemed such a strange way to behave, as foreign in the Red Keep as the hot desert-country from which the princess had been taken… It had been, Sansa had later come to realize after marching with the dornish, a wholly Martell way of understanding relationships between people that Myrcella had taken off the Snakes; a way of life and being that the princess seemed to have internalized more deeply than any other… so deeply in fact that to her it was natural. Myrcella could not seem to exist in any other form, though flexible enough to adapt to any and all of them. But that to Sansa did not seem fantastical. It seemed true: the lessons that take root the deepest within us are the ones carved into us with the hot steel of blood, and pain, and death. If, in a rare unguarded moment, one were to look closely into Myrcella’s Lannister eyes, one could see all three in those wildfire-green orbs.

Myrcella perhaps didn’t realize just how loudly the glitches of a behavior such as hers resonated in a place as the Red Keep, how achingly misplaced she had seemed sometimes among lions, though she was so undoubtedly one of them. Or perhaps the princess _did_ realize her own precariousness… After all, Myrcella distrusted her family and treated them with a level of disillusionment (and sometimes distain) that to Sansa had felt as familiar from the very first moment she had witnessed it.

To Sansa all of this was proof that at least the direction of her own theory was right. But few would be those that would ever have the patience to listen to that. Robb might have been one… of their mother were not so bent on interrupting.

“A Lannister will always be a Lannister, till the day they die. Take Genna Frey for an example and you’ll know what I mean.” But it really was her mother’s scornful tone and that told Sansa what she meant, more so than her words. “They are all the same.”

Sansa blinked her astonishment away - this was her mother after all, no matter how blind she could be sometimes to what was so obvious. “Indeed mother, they are not. I have lived among them long enough to know that. And believe me when I tell you that – though in different ways - Myrcella is as much of an oddity among her family as the Imp is.”

And how ironic was that to those that looks mattered above what lay beneath: the perfect Lannister and the Lannister disgrace, two peas in the same pod.

“It was the Imp that tried to kill Bran a second time, don’t forget that.” Her mother immediately countered, eyes clouding over with sorrow.

Sansa swallowed, and with that she swallowed back the words that had been on the tip of her tongue. She could say what she knew to be true… she could, but it would hurt her mother too deeply, too acutely. And Sansa would not do that.

Some truths were better left for the dead.

“Still, even if they had not lost her to Dorne quite as thoroughly as I believe they have, they would have once she was brought back to the Red Keep because of Joffrey's unchecked depravity, Tywin Lannister’s indifference and the queen’s powerlessness against it.” Sansa said with the decision that was fueled only by truth, keeping her tone blank.

And it had been a blessing, in Sansa’s opinion, that Myrcella’s grandfather was an emotionless block and that the princess despised him for the way he treated his family as if they were his possessions; that the queen loved her son too much to begrudge him anything even in cruelty, not even his obvious devilries and Myrcella hated her for it; that Jamie Lannister had not been there at all to sway the princess’ affections at all. (… though sometimes Sansa had wondered which was worse: to be fatherless and cut off from the rest of your family; or have your parents still living and your family all about you, and still fell just as alone and as much of an orphan.) The truth was that Myrcella did not like the game, despised her families ambitions and resented all that they had done to pursue it – and of those things Sansa was more than certain because Myrcella had not once made a secret of her feelings in that regard. Indeed they had been the grounds for the clashes between her and the queen often. But more importantly, Myrcella had none of their hunger for power. It was quite true that the princess had a deep craving as well, as each and every one of her family members did, but it was for different things.

“As it is, the only Lannister holding sway over Myrcella’s heart is Tommen-.” Sansa said, in the meantime thanking the gods for the boy’s existence, otherwise she might have never known whether or not the princess was even capable of true feeling. “-and the little prince is as sweet as the kittens he so likes, and luckily just as useless.”

Tyrion Lannister too was in that short list of two people, but more than her heart, the true sway the Imp had over Myrcella was of the mind. There seemed to be nobody whom the Princess was more willing to respect than her dwarf uncle and, at first, it had seemed as if it was done for the sole purpose of annoying the queen… but after months of watching them on and off in court, Sansa was not so sure. She remembered how, before she was send to Dorne, the princess and the little prince had loved their uncle openly... and seemed to be willing to love him still even after so much time, though differently. Truth be told, the relationship between those two was perhaps a bit more complicated than Sansa’s careful eye stretched, but it didn’t matter: what mattered was that Tyrion Lannister was too far away to do any harm and much too despised by the rest of the lions himself to be a real threat.

“Be that as it may-” Robb finally said, after he was certain that Sansa had spoken her own mind. “-I still don’t understand what it is exactly that you are proposing here. Nor do I understand how the princess not having any affection for her family, or even going so far as to despise them, makes her a more trustworthy to us.”

“Not to _us_.” Sansa said, looking at her brother in the eye. “To _you_.”

That seemed to startle Robb visibly, but only lasted a short moment. Understanding downed on him quickly and sharpened everything about him.

“If I knew how to make her mine…” Robb repeated her words back to her, but this time they sounded like both a question and a reflection. It took determination to keep holding his eyes when she felt their weight on herself so keenly. Robb sighed, as if tired and (though she knew it was only her imagination) disappointed with her. But when her brother spoke, there was no distain in his voice, nor judgment. The only thing Sansa perceived was a calm resolve.

“It doesn’t matter how alienated the princess has been from her family or how much, by some miracle, she might come to care for me - they will _always_ be her blood. Even if her loyalty could be swayed, she’d still never let them go completely. I don’t think she is of that kind.” And then, as he leaned forward and linked his fingers together, elbows on the table, he pinned her with an unflinching gaze and spoke in flat tones, just to make a point. “If _you_ hated me and despised me and yet someone tried to kill me, would you still leave me to my fate?”

His question was a challenge. The immediate response was in the way Sansa’s back straightened immediately. _You’re my brother!_ was her first thought, outraged - and there it was, his answer.

Sansa felt her insides curl up in tension. How could she possibly explain all that she knew? All that she had learned from them by watching them, living with them for years. Surviving them. All that Sansa had gathered from her so careful observation of the princess herself: of how Myrcella resisted and resented, how she rejected and hated… and – dare she say it? - yes, even how she loved. And, for all her strength, how lost she would be the moment the dornish left her in Winterfell. As adrift as a ship at the heart of a storm… how easily swayed.

But the right words failed her. She would have to use clumsy ones, but not for that reason, less true, less certain.

“They’re not like us, Robb. The _only_ thing that makes the Lannisters what they are is that, though they might hate each other – and they _do_ \- they would still do unimaginable things for family, because to almost all of them, and Tywin Lannister first among them, ‘family’ is not the people in it as much as the _name_ they carry. And their name and the power its capable of yielding is all that matters to them.” Sansa’s eyes blaze then, almost feverish in her conviction. “ _That_ is exactly the sort of connection that Myrcella lacks. I’m not sure she even cares about it. Her idea of _family_ is not the Lannisters’. It’s… its Oberyn Martell’s eight daughters and the one they have taught her.” Sansa took a deep breath, time enough for her next words to bear the weight of that small silence. “That is something _you_ could give her.”

 _A truer family to belong to than Myrcella has ever known; a place she will be able to call_ home _for the first time in her life, without regret._

It was a daring assumption to make, and not only because it was unsteady enough to be borderline reckless. It was daring because Sansa was very much aware that, for all her ability in wriggling secrets out of people, she didn’t know the princess half so well as to foresee her reactions with any kind of certainty.

But Sansa did know some other things though: she knew that though the princess did not feel the smallest connection to her Lannister name, she was prepared to do unimaginable things for those she loved – be them Lannisters or not. That was as true now as it had been when she had almost stabbed Joffrey for hurting Tommen one night, months ago. It had earned her a beating, but she had still spit on Joffrey’s face afterwards, dotting his face with blood of her own mouth. It had felt true when Elia said that Myrcella had almost killed a man to protect her. And Sansa knew that the princess did not trample over all that was moral and right just because her family demanded it and that Lannister laws for her were not the only laws: living in Dorne had made sure she realized that keenly.

The truth was that if only the princess had not been so strong of character and independent of mind, she would have been an easy target: she was like a kite with its string cut; a wanderer without a home and nowhere to belong: too Lannister for the dornish, too dornish for the Red Keep, not nearly as fixed anywhere to belong. And above anything else, what Myrcella wanted was to belong somewhere. To have a home.

 _That_ was the princess’ secret, her dark heart.

And it was one they could use.

“She’ll have your children and they’ll be Starks – that will bind her to Winterfell one way or another, but if you really want to be sure that she’ll never turn against you, the best way to go about it is this that I’m telling you.” Sansa hesitated, but only just. She knew it to be true… and as all truths it was ugly. “Get her to believe that _you_ believe she belongs with you.”

“She will be my wife. By the laws of gods and men she will always have a place by my side.” Robb said almost a little impatiently, but Sansa interrupted him with a shake of her head, immediate. _Not the point_ , it said.

“I’m not speaking of the place assigned to her by others, or the place she will make for herself – because she will. Securing her own position will be the first time she will do, have no fear of that, but… but if you get her to believe that you _want_ her with you, that…” _How do I say this without sounding as cold as the bite of steel_ , Sansa wondered? “- that she won’t have to work _against_ you to make a place for herself… If she believes that you are willing to have something _true_ with her, a life she can call her own in Winterfell, by your side… for that alone she will never harm you.”

Her brother’s eyes hardened, his mouth pressed on a close line. “Like Theon never harmed me. I loved him like a brother. He still betrayed me.”

Sansa bristles. For so long she had believed that Theon Greyjoy and truly killed her little brothers and burned their corpses. It was not for a long time afterwards that she had been told otherwise.

“Myrcella is not Theon. Theon never belonged in Winterfell. He was heir to Pyke.” Sansa tried.

Robb looked away from her and it was as clear an admission as if he’d actually spoke. But their mother did fill the silence for him.

“And neither does a Lannister.” Her mother said, severely. Sansa felt her first never begin to fray.

“Indeed, a Lannister could never belong in Winterfell, but try to remember, mother, that she will be your Robb’s wife and the son she might give him will be King after him. It would be most unwise to treat her bitterly when all she wants is to be accepted.” Sansa said, a little more impatiently than she meant to perhaps. She tuned to her brother then, if only so that she didn’t have to see the surprise on her mother’s face for being spoke to that way. “If you manage to turn her mind, if you manage to make her believe that her place truly is in Winterfell, then she’ll be an asset to you. Someone that, when the time comes will not turn her back on you and might even warn you against Tywin Lannister and whatever scheme he is concocting in the meantime.”

“That is a big gamble to take over so little evidence.” Her mother said after a bout of silence, sounding so hesitating that Sansa could easily imagine her thoughts: as if she could hardly believe what she was considering. But she was indeed considering it. What her mother said was the truth of course. It was a lot to gamble on the basis of a hunch, just Sansa’s own perception of someone’s character.

 “I know.” Sansa admitted looking at her mother in the eye. “But the possibility of victory is better than the certainty to defeat.”

“You seem to be forgetting, both of you, that this princess among us is not exactly the simples person to lie to.” Robb said, his tone bordering on dry, as if to reprimand them both. Sansa knew the reason for his irritation. They were speaking of a person thus, as if they were speaking of a thing. A girl that personally, Sansa even liked. Someone that her own brother might like as well. It would be easy to do so. Myrcella was someone that could draw you in immediately, if she had a mind to lure you. She had the easy charisma of someone who had been charming men and women for so long she hardly had to think on it anymore.

But she was still a Lannister.       

“Yes, you’re right. She is an accomplished liar herself, she cannot be played easily.” Sansa said firmly, knowing what she was saying beneath those words. “But for all her intelligence and perception, Myrcella is not above being manipulated. Just look at how marvelously the dornish have turned her: half the time she thinks like them and she doesn’t even realize it.”

“I doubt that.” Robb countered immediately. “That she doesn’t realize it, I mean.” And his eyes were so far away as he spoke. What was he thinking of? When his eyes were raised to hers, Sansa felt almost slapped with the knowing look they held, as if he knew her mind back and forth. She felt a child again. “And let’s say it as it is, shall we: what you want is for me to make her believe I love her.”

Sansa gulped. “Love is a strong word… and one that Myrcella doesn’t hold in any particularly high regard, so she might not even believe you if you said so. But _caring_ for her… that she might believe.”

Her brother’s eyes felt like ice-chirps on her skin and she could not tell whether it was her brother or her king that was speaking to her right now. He was not unkind, but the strength in him, of him, resonated in that moment. As if everything about him revolted at the idea of such a base deception.

Sansa had never felt the warped ugliness of who she was inside more keenly than in that moment.

“And what makes you so sure of that, sister?” he asked her. It was a question, not a taunt. He wanted to know. But it still felt like a challenge.

Sansa sighed, and looked at her hands. “I have gotten rather good at sniffing out people’s weaknesses these last years. And I can tell you that one of the princess’ weaknesses is her compulsion to find a home somewhere, be wanted somewhere.” _A need to be loved_ , Sansa thought – _that_ was what Myrcella Baratheon hungered for. A weakness if there ever was one… it made her so easy to me manipulated. All it would take was just the slightest bit of true feeling. “If you offer her that, she will _want_ to believe it.”

And Sansa knew better than anyone that when you want to believe something, you do half the job yourself: you will lie to yourself most easily, just to have a taste of that which your heart most wants. But she didn’t need to say that aloud: Robb already knew it. But the way he looked at her made Sansa wonder, would he really want to hear her say it then. Admit it honestly, what she wanted to do, how she wanted to lie?

“And what is _my_ weakness then? Can you tell me that?” he finally asked her instead.

It was worse, she found.

But Sansa still met her brother’s eyes unflinchingly, and knew that he knew his own weakness better than she could. A rarity for a man in his positon.

 _Why_ did he want her to say it? But he _did_ want her to, that was why he had not blinked as he looked at her.

“You should guard yourself against believing your own lie.” Sansa said softly, knowing full well that the only reason their mother had been silent so long was probably shock.

The ghost of a smile curved Robb’s lips, an acknowledgment. But it made him look so sad and tired for a moment…

“Must it be a lie?” he asked himself softly, not looking at anything in particular. Sansa felt her mother stiffen, felt all the words that Catelyn Tully was not saying stuck between tightly gritted teeth.She took a deep breath before speaking. Her words came out softer than she intended…

“It would be easier if it were. Less complicated perhaps.”

Her brother sighed and rubbed his eyes, as if the conversation had wearied him. Perhaps it had.

“Yes. So many things would be less complicated if we had them the way we want them.” Robb said with a sigh.

“Robb!” their mother called, looking at the edge of fretting as she looked from one child to the other. “You cannot mean it!”

But Robb only looked at her as if he was silently asked her to stop now, before they started a conversation that they had long exhausted, and that had tired him of patience.

“Mother…” Sansa tried, but Catelyn Tully would not be deviated from her course. Sansa should have known that, of course.

“That girl is _dangerous_. I would not care if she were the most harmless purest maid in the world, she would still be a _Lannister_. It will be through her that Tywin Lannister will act, just as your sister said: keep her too close and she’ll shove a dagger in your heart at her first chance.”

Robb finally lost his air of tranquility and that patience he had been conducting his talk with Sansa with, snapped.

“What would you have me do?” He said, almost raising his voice. It was not quite a shout, but certainly he spoke more loudly than before.

 _They have talked about this for far longer than I thought,_ Sansa realized.

“Would your bitterness be satisfied if I did as Karstark says: rape her the first chance I get, have her guarded like a criminal and have her killed the moment she births me a son? My own wife?! Is _that_ the kind of son you raised? The kind of King you want?”

With every word his anger and frustration grew and by the end he really was shouting.

Sansa found herself shocked by his words, by the depth of hatred they reflected. Had Karstark really suggest that?! Was the man mad completely? She should find a way to listen in the next time her brother met with his bannermen, if this were the kind of things that they discussed. But that was a thought of another time. Her mother flinched at the coarseness of the words that Robb spoke so bluntly, but she should not have. It was what she wanted, was it not? If it had not been, she should have made her disagreement known. Sansa searched her mother’s eyes. She saw distaste there… but not disapproval. It did not shock her – little shocked her anymore, but it did made her wonder.

_What is it that we have become?_

But when she looked at Robb, she was pleading. She was the mother Sansa remembered.

“Don’t you understand, my son? Before you, there were seven kingdoms and one king. You changed the rules, Robb. After you… _all_ is possible.” And then, her eyes grey hard her face set and her voice sharp. “You think Tywin Lannister will ever forgive that? Or that he will ever accept it? I tell you now that he will _not_. And he will retaliate in the fashion Tywin Lannister always has.”

Robb got up from his chair and went to the window, turning his back on both of them for a moment. No doubt, he wanted to have a moment to himself, to think in quiet, so Sansa gave him that silence that he had asked for.

When he turned, it was at the maps laid on the table that he looked at.

“Once we cross the Neck, there will be no way to attack the North. And the Ironborn…” Robb scowled when he spoke the word, as if it were a curse. “We will crush them so hard that it will be a thousand years before they ever _think_ on leaving those shitstained rocks they call home[6].” The fierceness in his face as he said it made Sansa believe it. She knew that plans were already in motion. It was no coincidence that they had not ridden ahead to Winterfell with a small garrison. “What even one such as Tywin Lannister can do then, with hundreds of miles between us, I wonder.”

“He will do what he always does: take with trickery and deceit that which he could not take any other way. You’re wrong to think that that man has limits Robb: he does not know them.” Sansa filled in, sensing the tension between her brother and her mother. “He only knows his goals. Whatever means he uses to get them is plausible to him, no matter how low.”

But she was careful to speak ever so softly, as not to provoke him again. He needed to see reason, but also to remember that she and their mother were arguing different sides here.

“You seem to know him well.” Robb said, but it was not judgment, at least not only. His crinkling brow seemed to be utterly puzzled by her knowledge of a man that not so many could claim to know half so well. But Sansa had had good reasons to study him. And study him deeply too. He had been the main source of her hatred once she learned what true monsters looked like – those that knew how to hurt beyond the body, and give pains that lasted for years and years.

In that moment, facing her brothers so honest inquiry, Sansa decided to tell the truth. It was an impulsive decision, but she ran with it, not giving herself time to overthink it, to doubt herself.

“There was a time I thought I was all that was left of house Stark.” She carefully kept her voice in check though, without realizing she sounded so very cold. “And I believe in knowing my enemies well, so that I will know, when the time comes, where to sink the blade that will hurt them the most.”

Sansa saw the realization in her brother, the way he blinked his eyes open to her, to the truth in her that she was finally letting him see. She daren’t look at her mother, but had hear the sharp intake of breath, had seen the tightening of those long fingers on the arms of the chair. Why should she be so surprised? Had she not proved herself capable of equally base thoughts just a moment before?

It was the small smile on Robb’s lips that shocked Sansa the most. Immediately she drew the wrong conclusion, as most usually do when taking hasty decisions.

“You don’t think I could have done it? That I could have avenged our family?” Sansa found herself gritting her teeth. It had been almost two years since she had thought herself alone in the world, but the pain was still as sharp and fresh as if it had been yesterday… perhaps that was why she confessed to her darkest desire so easily. “I would have torn them apart. I would have killed all of them, till there was no Lannisters left to make a shade upon this wretched world. _That_ is who I was willing to be for us.”

She bites the words out one by one, whole and cold and clear… and for once, true and honest as well in her spitefulness. She means them, with every drop of virulence she has ever felt for that accursed family and had so hurt her own. But she does not mean to speak quite so freely… Sansa feels her mistake when the smile fades from Robb’s lips and his eyes turn grave.

“I never doubted it.” He said then, his eyes boring into hers, mirror images of each other. “You are a Stark of Winterfell. And it was pride of that, which you saw before, and not mocking.”

Sansa blinked back her surprise, though his honesty, so freely given - same as he always gave it - hit her as suddenly as a slap might have. The fierceness bled out of her in a moment, and she was left a little sister again. Her shoulders sagged with a sigh, and she looked at her hands. Sansa should have known Robb would have said something like that. She should now many things and yet, she seemed to forget them just as often. But she should have not forgotten how, every time she felt forced these past few weeks to _play_ herself, just as often Robb had gently demanded, without even knowing what he was searching for, that she _be_ herself.

_Do you see me now, brother?_

But he could not. Not half so well as he would have liked, anyway. There were secrets in her, dark deeds that Sansa did not dare confess, not even to her shadow. She did not dare repeat them to her own heart.

But one truth remained however.

“It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me and saw something more than a pretty face and delicate limbs, I’m afraid. It served a purpose before… but I’ll never play any games with you Robb, I promise. You’ll always hear the truth from me.” _Especially when it’s so ugly everyone else will be afraid to speak it_. And this time Sansa looked her brother in the eye, begging him silently to believe her. She knew she would not be able to bear it if he did not. After so much time longing to go home, there could not be a home if they could not trust one another.

Robb’s eyes softened, his face mirrored a smile that was not there, but that could come at any moment. “I believe you. I would not doubt that.”                                                                       

Sansa feels her heart swell so much it hurt, at the tone of those words, at their fearless conviction. That is what truth sounds like, she told herself. And right after that… _oh brother mine, you should. You should doubt, always._ But resoluteness was firm in her. Why should he lower himself? It took a dark mind to concoct such things and Sansa had built herself such a mind. She could snatch all the dark things from the air and Robb would be forever untainted by them, their shining sun of hope[7], and all the things they should live by again.

Sansa smiled at herself for those thoughts. She was making him into an ideal, into someone he was not. Robb was a great man now, but he was just a man after all. And he had not won this war by being upright and honorable always. He had won it by making allies and keeping them at hard costs, by putting fear in the hearts of his enemies. It took a measure of necessary brutality to do that, a certain talent for it… one that her brother had had to learn, no doubt. But all men and women need something to believe in, and out of all the gods, Sansa felt safer in believing in someone she could love and that could love back.

“As for the Princess… I will do as I decide its best.” Her brother said when sufficient time had passed. He looked at their mother when he said it, and spoke with a certain finality that left no room for inquiry.

But Catelyn Tully had spent too much time among men to bend quite so easily, even in front of a king. “Robb, you must see reason…” she said, though she sounded as stubborn and she did pleading.

But Robb had lost the patience for the topic the moment he had seen no way out of it. “ _Enough_.” And he sounded so harsh that it Startled Sansa into blinking. Immediately though, after the King’s command, the son spoke, more softly this time. “We’ve talked about this long enough, I think.”

He sounded so tired, so very worn out that Sansa immediately felt her shame like a brand. There was a reason she had been so hesitant about speaking of this, so very careful. This was an underhanded strategy that Sansa had been planning and it was against all northern virtues of directness and honesty… and unfortunately for her ever hungry conscience, Sansa knew that very well. But it was also the one that would save her brothers conscience the most, out of all his alternatives.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Robb.” Sansa said softly…

“I never said that I didn’t think it a sound idea.” Robb admitted, and Sansa could tell by his tone alone that he was doing so against his will almost.

“But you don’t like it.” And she raised her head to look at him. The answer was in his eyes before it came out of his mouth.

“No, I don’t.” he said curtly, but his eyes were those of her brother. He took a deep breath and Sansa felt him takin her arm, urging her to stand up so that they could look eye to eye. He always did that, come to her level or make her come to his, so that she didn’t have to look up or down to him, whenever he felt he had something important to say to her.

It reminded Sansa of their father so acutely that it hurt.             

“I know that you take such great care about all you do and say, but you’re not in the Red Keep any longer, Sansa. You don’t have to watch every single step so carefully. Everything you think I should know, you must tell me and not be so skittish about it. Though I would be glad to know what it is that you fear, even here with us.”

It was in moments like these that Sansa was most cutely reminded that her brother was not just anyone anymore. That he was a king – had been for years – a king forged in war and loss and pain, and that if he had been perceptive about people before, now he was older and more experienced, and all that had made him more able in detecting discomfort. He could detect it even in her, read it in her silences perhaps, in her fidgeting whenever she made up her mind to speak things she knew he would not like. In all the discrepancies between who she used to be and who she was now.

Sansa smiled inwardly at that. _Families have long memories…_ And as the differences in time had been transparent for Myrcella in the Red Keep, so they were for Sansa now, among other wolves.It was in times like these that Sansa understood how, despite her sharpness and so careful mind, she too could be as big a fool as any in that place where her insecurities lived.

“I’m not afraid of anything, not really. I’m just being silly most of the time.” Sansa finally said, giving him a smile. Robb didn’t buy it at all, she knew, but just as he had not asked her directly before, about what she dreaded and what lived in her silences, so she knew that he would not ask her now either.

She was grateful for that.

Especially in times like these when, as uncomfortable as she was with being of such a different mind with her brother and mother (thought for completely different reasons) Sansa was also convinced that she was right. She did not by any means repudiate her northern culture and its virtue, but she also was of the very strong opinion that when dealing with liars you must never be too bold and never show all your cards. As was a truth to be respected the one that said you should never alienate a piece that could be swayed your way with just a little bit of work. Because, unlike her lady mother, so perfectly rigid in her way of thinking, Sansa looked at Myrcella and saw how what an asset Myrcella could be, if only there existed a way to be certain of her loyalties, at least by a little.

But, to Sansa’s great bereavement, her mother proved to be quite the surprise, not in her way of doing things, but on the potential for destruction that her next move proved to have… and even after Sansa could not say she was sure whether Catelyn Tully had been trying to really take a full measure of the Princess, or whether she was making sure that the closeness Sansa had suggested never came to pass.

 

[1] From the book, I think.

[2] Robb, in Game of thrones.

[3] A little like the line in ‘Alexander’, from Olympia. ‘In my womb I carried my avenger’

[4] Quoted from Cercei Lannister, at the end of season four, as I’m sure most of you know.

[5] Taken directly from the mouth of Sir Aerys Oakheart, Myrcella’s guard in Dorne. I love finding quotes like this in the book!

[6] Yes, I did steal the Ramsay Snow’s line there… shame on me, but I liked it anyway ;P

[7] For those who will say I’m getting melodramatic… I am, but that is Sansa’s mind, and also, I loosely based her vision on the meaning of Robb’s name, which is ‘bright one’ or something closely like it.


	9. Missing scene: A king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ONE more scene to finish in the next chapter, and then it will be done. I hope to post it by TOMORROW at most, promise. It's around 15.000 words and I hope its worth it. In the mean time, this is just a small preview - next chapter is almost entirely from Robb's pov. I knew this part was too important not to write but I felt it did not fit that well with the overall tone of the upcoming chapter so I put it here, aside. Personally, I had to write it to get inside Robb's head.
> 
> At the very end of this, there is a section where most of you will think, rightly so, that had I added a few well place lines of dialogue there, the last chapter about Sansa could have been entirely avoided. It true, but then the inner working of Sansa's mind and therefore her characterization would have been much sketchier than it is now.

_Small side-note 2: A king_

Every day after he had had that conversation with his sister, Robb could not help but look at the princess and think back on it. Everyone about him seemed to have a very clear idea on what to do with Myrcella Baratheon; everyone except himself. And though the princess left him confused and undecided, he was sure in his heart, if not in his head, that his own indecision was better than all the alternatives he had been presented with. It seemed to him sometimes that the more he thought of it, the more complicated this situation became.

'Complicated'. That was a good word for the princess. The fascination it caused him dulled somewhat his suspicion of her, but it still cause him disquiet in the same measure. As a king, he would have preferred someone a little more easily pigeon-holed. But 'wishing' was not 'having' and fools had died for less. The only thing Robb could appreciate out of it was that, at least, she did not pretend: to be simple, and uncomplicated and safe. When he had told her one morning that she looked beautiful, the princess had given him a small smile and, looking at him dead in the eye without blinking as she thanked him. He didn't know why her expression made him think she was surprised. It was nonsensical: she _was_ beautiful, it was a fact, not even worthy of being called a compliment.

"Beauty is a mirror, your grace." She had said then, when he enquired about her thoughts (as bluntly as ever, because he admitted that he liked to discomfit her with his manner.) "To know that I am beautiful in your eyes makes me beautiful."

Robb had said nothing more of it, but he could not help but think back on how exposed she had seemed that night out in the gardens, how her eyes had widened in surprise, face slack with it for the moment it took for her hand to go to her cheek, to that glaring scar, before she could remind herself not to. In that unwitting gesture - and how fast she put her hand down afterwards, like a child caught making a mistake - Robb had seen the truth of it: there must have been many those that had reminded her of her ruined cheek once she got it, and how it shattered her beauty like a crack on an otherwise perfectly smooth mirror. That scar was now a line of smooth flesh, untouched by the honeyed hue of the rest of her skin and standing out starkly over it. It was so flagrant not because it was some grotesque wound, but because on a beauty so marked, it had no place at all. Her scar stood out the way spilled blood does on fresh snow. Sharp and precise (so much so that it could have been either masterfully sewed together, or very deliberately inflicted, Robb often found himself thinking) it ripped down the side of her face splitting her cheekbone all the way to the ear she was said not to have. Robb knew the japes everyone made of that, and how they called her 'the scarred Princess', the mutilated Lannister… and worse. 'Beautiful', was perhaps not what she expected to be called anymore

There were things that made her smile as well, things that brought the strangest looks on her face. He had never seen eyes such as hers, so vivid and bright. All her liveliness began in her eyes. He had never seen a smile such as hers either: hesitating at first, as if unsure or out of practice, and then full and bright all at once, startling. There was the most stunning sincerity to be found in her smiles. It was impossible not to smile back… not to want to put a stray curl away from her face and see if that hair of gold was as soft as it looked; to touch her skin, her smooth throat. There were moments when she spoke to someone who was not him and Robb found himself looking at her lips move. There were moments, uncommon but there, when he could almost feel something in him pull, something as vague as a memory he'd forgotten he had, brought back by a scent he never knew he remembered… it was there when he looked at her and she stared back in silence: the ghost of attraction… like the prickle of a bee, reminding him of things he'd rather not think of.

It was only in silence that he found Robb could best understand her, when there was nothing between them but his curiosity and her fascination (or was that het other way around…). In silence he could be honest with himself, because whenever he spoke, to her he was always 'your grace'. She never called him anything else. Another curious expression she used was 'I would not presume'. She did not say it often, but that was not the point: every time she spoke it, she did so with a sort of conscious deference, and yet it also seemed like a slap in the face: _I am not allowed to presume_. It was as if every time she acknowledged her boundaries, she disparaged them in the same breath. Robb knew that people so often said one thing and meant another, but could a person say something that could be read two ways and mean them both?

It all made Robb wonder if maybe be was thinking too hard on this. He certainly had never thought so much over one person before. But then again, he had never had as many other people so vehemently willing to do his thinking for him as he had in this case.

But how could he _not_ doubt, with so much encumbering his brain? There was goodness in her, it was so easy to see it. Thoughts like those made Robb wonder if he would fare better if he just forgot her name and parentage and simply got to know this girl, the one he is stuck with, the one that he has no doubt he could easily learnt to like… and there's a lie, because despite himself he likes her already.

But the Lannister in her makes her impossible to trust. His mother was right when she mentioned Genna Frey. She was the reason he was almost killed at the Riverrun and some of his most loyal men, slaughtered. And that was where Sansa was wrong as well. Marriage does not change a woman – only foolish men believe that they can conquer these strange creatures. And the princess is no easy thing to dismantle. Her quiet demeanor and pensive nature make her seem simple, but she is not – one conversation with her had been enough to know it - and trying to pick her apart is like trying to cut slices out of live steel: you just don't do it. Robb has no doubts on that point, no illusions: you see only what she wants you to see and only very rarely does she slip. Personally, Robb had never seen her do that in company. It was with him alone that she seemed to allow herself to shed that armor and allow him glimpses of something underneath… he didn't yet know what to think about that.

Robb knew that he would end up hurting her; that part was as unavoidable as a next breath. He had not set out to do it, but now that she had been placed by his side… it complicated things. There were plans set in motion, there had been for years, things that could not be changed, nor would they even if he wished it and Robb most certainly did not wish it. But still, could he in all good faith, make the princess (his _wife_ ; it was such a strange concept, imagining all this about one who was to be his wife…) believe that he loved her, and then betray that trust as his had been betrayed so many times over? Was he capable of causing that kind of pain to someone else, knowing the taste of it so well himself?

Wouldn't it be better if he kept her distant and made the break a clean one, make it simpler on himself and the princess as well?

_Would it though? Be better? Or just easier… safer._

At what point did playing for safety become cruel? Too cruel to bear? It seemed such a little thing: one heart to break. Only _one_. One's trust to shatter. In comparison to some other things Robb had done, this seemed almost… inconsequential. These plans that had been made and that the princess was now an unknowing part of, they had been set for a purpose so imperative that it went beyond any single life. In their midst, Myrcella Baratheon had been an unforeseen complication, that was true, but she was not an unmanageable one. Indeed, if one chose to ignore her feelings entirely, she would not even matter in the grand scheme of things… but Robb was not that man. He had learned to be a great many things through this war. He had learned to be sully his hands, if it meant the survival of his people… but he could not forget he was dealing with men and women, with their lives. He could not forget who he was raised to be, and start calling ruling a ' _game'_ , like they did in the south. There was a reason why Kings of Winter swung the blade themselves and the reason was a respect for life and death and its weight. It made you look the man you kill in the eye, it stained you in their blood. _You must never forget what death looks like_ , his father used to tell him and Robb had never forgotten it. To this day he did not want to make it easier for himself to play with the lives of others, lest it should become too easy, and Robb less human.

It was because of all that and who he was, that Robb could not ignore the Princess' presence, her being and her feelings, in this careful trap that cut across realms and years. Those careful plans too had been a reason why he had not wanted her with him. He had known even before meeting her that he would not be able to simply see her as a piece in a board and not a person he was bound to betray in the end. That he _must_ do so inevitably scratched at him from the inside. Even more so now that he was starting to know her.

It was laughable, thinking that it would have made things a fraction easier for his conscience, if the princess had been at least easier to dislike, to hate. But she was not.

She was not…

Tywin Lannister thought he was being cunning when he had chosen his queen for him but the truth was that the man could not possibly know all the ripples that one action would cause. Nor could he ever _come_ to know it… and neither could the princess. Not until it was time. By then it would be too late, of course, but that could not be helped.

An inescapable betrayal. Not a question of _if_ , but of _when_. And that wound would run deeper still if Robb made the princess believe she was loved and safe, only to stab her in the back.

Could he really fall so low? Was there no end to the pieces of himself he would have to feed this _crown_ he bore, this war that seemed to never be at an end even once the clash of swords was over? Robb wondered if, once the end truly came, it would be worth it; all the sacrifices and blood and ugly things done in the name of this game of thrones they had all started and fueled. Robb sighed, rubbed his face hard trying to come up with an answer. None came, of course. Being a good king apparently meant that you would have to sacrifice being a good man every once in a while.

There had been a time when he would have said no to that kind of compromise. He had had to know the feel of steel through his chest and what it felt like to think his family decimated, before he knew he had the strength to be whatever he needed to be for victory, when only victory could mean safety for those he loved. He'd learned to choose his duty over everything, even his own honor… but still whenever he did, he felt his conscience snap at him and his maimed integrity howled like a living thing inside him. _May it never stop hurting_ , Robb prayed. _May I never stop remembering_. He would fear the day he would stop agonizing over decisions like this. That would be the day he would look into the mirror and not know himself. He'd be a different man, and Robb did not want that. He could be himself, even as he sacrificed himself, as long as that pain reminded him who he was and who he came from. Which was perhaps what had made Robb ask Sansa if she was sure of her opinions on Myrcella Baratheon. He had made sure they were alone before he did so. Speaking of the princess in any measure of possibility beyond deep mistrust was impossible whenever their mother, or anyone else, was around.

His sister had looked him in the eye and Robb had known that she was remembering the conversation they had had that very day with their mother in their uncle's solar.

"Myrcella is no player, Robb." Sansa had said with enough confidence to make him think she truly believed it. "She is intelligent enough to know players though, and evade schemes. She's as slippery as an eel in water… but she is not obsessed with power."

A thoughtful expression came over his sister's face then, as if she was thinking about something, but though he'd wanted to, Robb did not interrupt her.

"Well, to say that she doesn't like it would be a stretch. She likes making people do things and enjoys control just fine, but she dreads power more than she covets its fruits and eases." Sansa had shrugged then, as if she was speaking of a small matter. "They are few, I think, the things that the princess fear: one of them is thought of ever becoming her mother however."

And that was a revelation that Robb was not likely to forget.

A smile comes over Sansa's face, one that Robb does both likes and dislikes. It's her cruel smile, the one she wears every time she thinks about the pain of those she hated and enjoys the thought of it. Her she-wolf smile.

"The queen knew it too. It drove her to these unbelievable rages sometimes - it was quite amusing, as long as you kept out of her sight. But I digress. Myrcella… there are things she cannot avoid being Robb, but all she does says to me that the princess doesn't care much for imitating her family too closely in what makes them so despised."

But Robb caught the difference, that subtle things that her sister was _not_ saying, despite having said a lot.

"Doesn't want to, or can't?"

Sansa's smile was one of satisfaction.

"Doesn't _want_ to. Make no mistake Robb, Myrcella's mind is capable of darkness; proof of it is that she managed to survive in Dorne all alone surrounded by enemies at every turn. She _thinks_ like a Lannister." But then Sansa gave herself pause. "Well, that's perhaps unkind: she thinks like a survivor. That's no bad thing I suppose; after all, so do I." his sister had said, giving him an apologetic smile, the need for which he had brushed away with a shake of the head and one arm looping over Sansa's shoulders and bringing her closer. He could forgive her anything – if there had been anything to forgive at all, which Robb firmly believed there was not – for the sole restitution of having her back alive and well. Whatever she wanted to amend in herself she was free to do it, as long as she lived.

"But Lannister name and thoughts aside, Myrcella acts like a person who would rather be loved than be feared."

Her glance had been conspiratorial almost, and her smile teasing.

"She is contradictory that way, your princess. It makes for interesting conversations." She'd chuckled then, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. "At least you won't ever be bored of her."

o

TBC


	10. ...and every promise you will break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: the last of the Riverrun chapters, finally!
> 
> The first part of this chapter is… well, difficult. It runs a certain risk of coming off as improbable where Oberyn is concerned. I have tried to construct it so that it may be as solidly logic as I could make it and hopefully keeping true to the characters. I hope that takes the edge off, but in the end it will depend on how you perceive the characters, so it may be subjective to each of you. As for Tyene - I read something a couple of days ago (a confrontation between her and Doran Martell) that made me realize that the personality i have given her is actually more suited to Nymeria, but i did not know that before i wrote this, so bear with me there.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you like :)

 

**_7_ ** _. …and every promise you will break._

_"Truly man is the king of beasts, for his brutality exceeds them. Our lives are made by the death of others. We are the burial places."_

_Leonardo da Vinci_

When Robb walked into the room, one look was enough to tell him that he was not to dine alone with Oberyn. His mother was there also, and Arya too who seemed deep in a discussion with Tyene Sand while Sansa spoke to prince Oberyn, Ellaria and princess Myrcella. The moment she saw him, his sister got up with a smile and came to his arm, a bright greeting on her lips… which Robb found amusing since they had after all broken their fast together only that morning. Once she was close enough that she could whisper to him however, he understood why.

"It was good of you to invite the princess to dine with us Robb." Sansa said, eyes bright. But the confusion that immediately showed in Robb's face melted her smile, sparking doubt in her. Her whole face fell and Robb didn't even need to say anything at all.

"You didn't." she whispered to herself, frowning. But what she did next amazed Robb entirely though. She looked at their mother, who seemed utterly oblivious to them as she reminded Arya to keep a better posture as she sat on the table.

As she took her place, Sansa acted and looked as if nothing at all had changed, and she was utterly undisturbed. Robb however felt a certain lingering unease. It was nothing, of course, but the uncertainty had a way of bothering him… though when the Princess turned to look at him and he saw that the bright smile she had been sharing with Ellaria Sand a moment ago stayed on her face, undimmed, Robb felt that agitation quieten and he gave her a small smile back. It really didn't matter why the princess was here, nor who invited her if he did not. It was rare to see her truly happy and not simply bothering to look that way, and Robb found that he liked the sight of that. Her presence was brighter when the emotions behind it were real.

The meal, though a simple affair, passed cheerfully. It was impossible to sit with Oberyn and not find yourself laughing over all the things the man had seen and done in his life, or at Ellaria and her little quips about them. After they had finished, the company scattered about the room a bit. Or rather, his mother and Tyene Sand went to sit by the windowsill together, comparing stitches, while Ellaria was deep in discussion with Arya and Sansa. They were trying to draw in the princess as well, who seemed to be more interested in Robb and Oberyn's talk of supply lines and military tactics against the Ironborn.

Robb had been feeling so at his ease and comfortable that when the change happened, it was quite unexpected.

"Throughout all my life, one of the things I have never been called is 'subtle'." when he found himself addressed so vaguely by none other than Oberyn, Robb was puzzled. "And up here in the north it suits me, since I have come to find that northerners value directness and repudiate underhanded measures. This makes the obligations I have to my allies a little clearer, and easier to live by."

Robb didn't like the pause that the prince made after those words either, but he liked what came after even less.

"Princess Myrcella…"

But acknowledge the call was all she could do so far. She did so with a turn of her head and a barely accented smile that invited speech.

"Did you know how it was that our alliance with the North came to pass?" Oberyn asked, with all the lightheartedness of an easy conversation that was not meant to go anywhere in particular. Robb froze, his hand tightening on his glass in a way that was almost instinctive and he found he had to pry his fingers loose with great effort.

Just what the bloody fuck did Oberyn think he was doing?

The princess was not fooled by the lightness of Oberyn's tone either. There was too much intent in those dark viper eyes for her to miss. She hesitated in unsureness only for a moment before she too abandoned the vulnerable lightness of her mood. Robb watched as Myrcella Baratheon, princess of the Iron Throne, collected herself as if every free smile and lighthearted word had been a piece of her person she had scared about the room… and once she was done she returned a different creature, composed and politely distant. A princess, where before she had given them glimpses of a person.

She could not know of course the thin line Oberyn was treading on, just how much the Viper of Dorne would endanger if he gave away too much too soon. There were so many secrets that should not be mentioned, not even hinted at,  _one_  in particular. But the keeping of secrets was important not only for the sake of those hidden things, but for the princess' safety as well, because the nature of them was so that  _she_  would be the only one the blades in the dark would cut: they'd be forced -  _Robb_  would be forced - to truly guard her then, lest she should slip the wrong word to the wrong man. And how happy would  _that_  make everyone… Robb could hardly keep the scowl off his face at the thought. He felt his lips thin in anger, but tried hard to steady himself. He knew he must not be obvious of his emotions, not now. He should be as unflappable about this as the princess was being. He should, because unlike the princess who kept herself so composed because she was always such a careful girl, Robb knew the stakes all too well.

But he knew something else as well: no matter what charade he had to keep, he would never allow their best kept secrets to slip, not even for Oberyn. Not because he might not be able to control the princess afterwards - though it was a fair possibility - but because Robb didn't  _want_  to have to do it. He could not allow himself to reach that level. He  _would_  not. And no matter who it was that demanded it or why, he could not allow someone blameless to suffer for another's madness. No matter who was which.

"No, I'm afraid I do not know, Prince Oberyn." The princess said calmly. ' _Go on, tell me_ ' her expression said. She even looked curious.

Oberyn got up, started circling the table until he came to stand against the back to the princess' chair. The dornishman only glanced at him but Robb was sure that Oberyn had gotten the silent warning clearly. All Robb could think of was ' _He better._ ' He did not like to give ultimatums to allies, but he would to that and more if he had to.

"The Winter King made me an offer that I could not have refused; one that no man but him had ever chosen to give me, consequently earning my everlasting respect." Oberyn leaned in so that he was closer to the princess as he spoke, his head practically side by side her golden one. The princess did not seem bothered by it however. "You see… he gave me the chance for revenge."

The princess swallowed her surprise in a blink, staring straight ahead into nothingness, her face utterly blank.

"Gregor Clegane." She murmured tonelessly.

Oberyn behind her scowled at the name.

And that was when Robb knew this was not going to be what he first had feared. Oberyn didn't plan on giving away any secrets here. It was worse than that, somehow. Because it only took the Mountain's name to remind all present of what the man was most famous for and suddenly the shadow of Oberyn's past, the ghost of his sister Elia was the in the room with them… and over Princess Myrcella's shoulder too, a shade hovered: in the gold of her hair and green of her eyes. She was a living, breathing reminder of it; of how, and why… and by whom.

"Indeed." Oberyn said, pulling out a chair in front of the princess and plucking himself there. "Gregor Clegane. The Enormity and Rides. They had managed to capture him alive, did you know? I had the pleasure of killing him myself."

Oberyn's eyes glittered; by then every other conversation in the room had died and the air was staring to thicken in silence and mounding tension. Even Arya was standing still and silent as a mouse, grey eyes not missing anything, quick as steel in the dark. The princess on the other hand sat straight as always on her chair, her shoulders thrown back, chin just slightly pointed upwards. Her whole demeanor was that of someone undaunted and she stared at the princes with the cool eyes of the unemotional.

"I killed him slowly, with little bites of steel here and there. He broke three of my ribs and almost crushed my skull as he had done with my sister before me… But the Mountain that Rides is slow and the viper strikes fast."

Robb did not know what reaction he had been expecting, but the princess' nod in understanding most certainly was not it.

"…Did he scream?" she asked then, so flatly that it was hard to know what hid behind the question. Perhaps it was a challenge. Perhaps she really wanted to know.

…Perhaps she just wanted to show the Viper of Dorne that she was not going to flinch for him.

Oberyn's smile was all teeth, ready for a bite. "Oh, he did. Manticore poison is one of the most painful ways to die. He screamed for days. I must admit… I enjoyed every moment of it."

Robb searched for a sign of discomfort on the princess' face, some sign that she wanted to be done with this conversation.

She gave none.

In that moment she was to him as blank as a clean sheet of paper and with every moment growing more distant.

"I am glad you got your revenge, prince Oberyn." The princess says instead, and as far as Robb can tell, she meant it. There is a certain feeling there, some sort of emotion that she gently lays on them, as if unwilling to be too transparent with it.

But it does not matter because Oberyn is not satisfied.

"I got one kill, but there was no revenge." he says as he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and Robb sees Sansa looking at him with something like alarm, though Ellaria has one hand over her forearm, as if to calm her.

 _Make them stop_ , her eyes tell me.  _How_ , he wishes to ask her? How without appearing a fool, when both the viper and the princess seem so concerned with making this look as if it's just another conversation? It's almost shameless how Oberyn disregards his authority so carelessly, but so far he has not said or done anything that might justify any kind of intervention on Robb's part… and that sets Robb's teeth on edge more than anything. He hates being caged in by diplomatic thorn-beds and careful manners, things that for the most part, he found he had little patience for. The truth is that had this not been the prince of Dorne, Robb would have said 'to hell with it' and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, thrown him out the room without giving a single fuck about manners at all.

…But it  _was_  the Prince of Dorne and many things came with that. This was one of his most important alleys, a man that had helped him win the war in more ways than one, and upon whose intervention a key alliance had been forged, with all that that meant for the future. And until the Princess gave some sign of being bothered in any sort of way, Robb felt he had no legitimate grounds to interfere between them. He had a passing doubt however, that the sea would dry and mountains would blow in the wind[1] before this princess ever gave any adversary the pleasure of seeing them affect her.

Oberyn seemed to be relentlessly trying though.

"You see Myrcella, even when I cursed him and threated to chase him through all seven hells, the Mountain did not tell me who it was that gave him the order to kill my sister. He did not admit to it, even after he said my sister's name, her children's name. Even after he admitted to raping her, killing her, killing her son. Even then, he would not speak Tywin Lannisters name." Oberyn's intensity could be overwhelming at the best of times, but now… Robb was sure that the dornishman was deliberately trying to be unnerving, biting off every word as if it cost him pains. "I have been wondering why that is for months. It has almost made me doubt that which I know to be true."

Oberyn spoke in the tones of someone stating things, not asking things, and yet the open ended nature of his words made them into a natural question, especially considered who they were being referred to. As for the princess… her surprise was short lived and minimal – all in all, just one blink - but to Robb was enough. She had understood in that moment, as Robb had, where this had been heading from the start.

Robb felt his anger start to stir. How long had Oberyn been planning this? And what the hell gave him the right to think he… Robb's thoughts jarred into a halt and he recalled the way his sister had looked to their mother when she learned that Robb had not invited the princess here himself. So  _that_  was why the Red Viper thought he could abuse his guest: because his mother had given the prince permission to do so? Whether it had been done implicitly or not, it didn't matter; she had no right!

And neither did anyone else, not even the fucking prince of Dorne, not even for this.

"Oberyn." Robb did not mean to say the donnish prince's name quite so much like a warning, but it was the way it came out.

He would not be made of fool of by anyone - and that was precisely what his mother had given Oberyn the permission to do, whether she realized it or not, if indeed it had been her behind the bringing of all this together. Robb could not imagine her intentions and at this point, they did not matter and not just because he was angry with her for it. Whatever her point, the result of her actions would be Robb's clear ineptitude to guarantee the safety of  _a single girl!_  Lannister or not, he was better than that. He could not blame shitstains like Aemon Frey for not understanding this very simple concept – if that boy had had ten hands he still would not be able to wipe his own arse – but his  _mother_  should have known better. Oberyn too, should have known better.

 _'Obligations to his allies'_  the Viper said. The truth was that the prince of Dorne had been there when Robb had made the matter plain with his men. After that feast and Aemon Frey's idiotic antics, Robb had made it clear that any form of attack on the Princess of the Iron Throne would be met with utter inflexibility on his part… and warned the Frey boy for the first and last time that if he ever dared to play such games again, he would start losing body parts to Grey Wind - and he'd meant it. They could not seem to understand that it was not just one Lannister's safety and nerves they wanted to play with, but their King's honor as a host, as her keeper and intended… as Ned Stark's son. But since this seemed to escape the understanding of most, Robb had seen fit to give fair warning, which was probably why the Viper now wanted to have him in the room for this lovely discussion, as if Robb's being there could somehow alter the nature of this exchange into something other than what it was plainly shaping up to be: and interrogation between uneven parties.

"My friend, I only seek the truth." Oberyn said by way of explanation.

Robb felt his face harden against his feelings. He willed himself into impassiveness like so many times before and felt the way it cooled his temper and created distance between himself and his feelings, as if they belonged to someone else.

"You may seek the truth when the one you seek it from is not under my protection." He heard himself say, and knew that he sounded severe enough to bruise. He'd wanted to. But instead of backtracking, Oberyn's smile stretched wider, though it was not more cheerful than before.

"I ask for nothing more than the princess is willing to give." The dornishman said then… and Robb saw the meanings of those words unraveled like threads of a tapestry when he noticed the effect they had on the princess as she absorbed them: he saw it in the way her chin lifted up a fraction, acknowledging; that tiny, almost imperceptible curl at the corner of her lips was just as challenging as the vipers sneer. She had seen his dare... and taken it.

But when the princess turned to Robb, that look of defiance in her was gone, replaced by a severe sort of blankness that froze her face into a mask of stone.

"I thank you, your grace, for your fairness… but I would rather face this here and now. I see no point in letting matters fester between friends."

 _Friends_ … Robb wondered if she really believed that, or how much a friend Oberyn was to her right now. But he was not blind to the determined set of the princess' jaw, the firmness of her tone. She was set to meet Oberyn head on, whatever he had to say. Robb had not thought the princess confrontational until this moment. Now he saw that not only was she so, but dauntless as well. There was no fear in her eyes, no cowering. Only firm resolution.

_Not one to shy away from a fight are you?_

What was it that Sansa had said?  _…always braver than her brothers._ But it was different to hear words than it was to see the proof of them before his eyes.

"See, the princess admits she will answer me." Oberyn declared.  _'As I knew she would_ ' his tone seemed to suggest.

"I admitted no such thing." The princess countered immediately, tone so coldly polite it could draw blood. "I do not claim to be your equal in frankness, Prince Oberyn. You may ask a question which I may chose not to answer[2]."

There was the spark of defiance in so cold a manner, so flat an answer. Pride could be a virtue to be admired, but Robb had always thought too much of it was a sure way to die. The princess seemed to be toeing a fine line there.

Perhaps that was what made Oberyn lose all presence at playfulness as he took the princess in, the seriousness with which she spoke.

"You know me well, Myrcella." his voice had dropped a little, evened out. Robb did not miss the familiarity with which the Oberyn addressed the princess, just as he realized that he had been, ever so politely, put to the sidelines. The Princess of the Iron Throne had made her choice, firmly so in fact, and in a way that left no doubt over her will. But what most surprised Robb was the fact that, so gently had she turned away his assistance that for a moment, he had not realized it at all. And though the uselessness of his position in this made Robb want to grit his teeth and scowl at her for her willfulness… he could not help but appreciate the spirit behind it.

"I know you sketchily, my prince." the princess corrected, making Oberyn smile with one corner of his mouth. It looked bitter and didn't reach his dark eyes.

"Then you ought to know I am not a man to be trifled with."

"I do know that" the princess admitted calmly. "As I'm sure you know that I am not one to  _'trifle'_  with anyone or anything."

Neither the princess nor Oberyn looked to be tiring form their staring, both equally convinced, it seemed, that neither should be the one to first look away.

"Why didn't the Mountain name Tywin Lannister, Myrcella?" the prince's question resounded with a sadness that sometimes echoed in Oberyn's every word, a sadness that was no less real even though his eyes burned fierce.

To Robb the question itself seemed pointless. How could she possibly know?

"I do not know why." The princess said impassively. "You should have thought to ask him before you killed him."

Robb felt his lips thin in disapproval. It was bad enough that she was toying with fire; she did not need to add to it by provoking someone with a temper as unstable as Oberyn's.

But the prince of Dorne only smiled, thin and lopsided, at her stone-faced nerve.

"I should have. But I got... shall we say carried away." Oberyn took a deep breath with eyes briefly closed, and Robb knew what he was seeing behind those eyelids. "The feel of a man's flesh opening, his bones and guts peeking through - it's almost intoxicating. And the scent of blood... it overwhelms senses and reason, the beast inside the man comes out. And I had been wanting that kill for too long."

The more Oberyn spoke, the lower his stare became, the more threatening. His words painted a gruesome picture and Oberyn did not hide the pleasure in his voice as he spoke them. It was meant to unnerve and provoke, Robb knew. Had a man addressed those words to him, Robb would have taken them for the threat they were, but it was to a  _princess_  that Oberyn was speaking them to… though the implication was no different.

They were wasted, for all Robb could tell: the princess didn't even change breathing patterns, as if she heard of such pitiless revelations every day.

"Shame then." Was all she said, remarkably indifferent. A princess born, some would say. Royalty suited her well, comfortably even, set apart as she seemed in that moment; utterly untouched and untouchable. Perhaps, as kings were made and not born, so were princesses. It made Robb think that he may have been wrong after all: pride alone is hollow, it cannot account for courage. She was not immune to nerves however: the line of her shoulders stood tense, her hands were clasped tightly and unmoving in her lap, her whole person too still. She was so coiled she might snap. There was no real danger to her; Robb would never allow it… but she did not know that.

 _What reason does she have to trust you with her safety after all,_  Robb thought derisively.  _Look at the position she is now, and you're sitting in the same room with her, silent and useless_.

His exasperation at his own helplessness made Robb forget for a moment that it had been the princess herself to refuse to hide behind him. And once he was reminded, he was not so kind.

_Lannister pride. Of course she would not!_

He could so easily despise her for the same reason he had admired her not a moment ago.

…So many ways to see the same thing.  _That's_  how she managed to complicate everything for him: she was herself  _and_  her name.

"Tell me Myrcella. I need to hear it and I wish to hear it from your mouth." Oberyn demanded as he leaned forward even further, a snake coiling. "Who killed my sister? Who gave the order?"

But the princess gave no answer. She stood unmovable as granite and did not look to anyone for help either, thought she was not alone in the room. It was not her way, it seemed, to ask for help… nor perhaps be prepared to receive it. Was the thought so unfamiliar that it did not even occur to her to reach out? Or was it because she thought she did not need help at all?

But though he had never claimed to possess any kind of insight to her mind, in that moment Robb knew what she was thinking – the hardness of her eyes told it to him:  _I am alone among enemies_. And that's when Robb learned a fundamental truth about the Princess Myrcella's character that seemed to escape even Sansa's observant eye: whether Baratheon or Lannister, it did not matter. There was a will of iron that gave her momentum and he had seen that same fire in Arya, saw it in Sansa every day. He had it in himself, took strength from it. It was the undiscriminating will to live; total and consuming it made you push harder against every barrier, to preserve oneself and make it through to the other side.

 _Survivors_ , he thought, and knew it to be true.  _We are all broken children of war._

"Don't look at me that way, Princess. You know it would come to this eventually." Oberyn pointed out casually goadingly almost. It did not seem to be working this time though, and Robb had a feeling that Oberyn would lose patience before the princess lost her resolve. "I thought you are a clever girl, Myrcella. So be clever: answer me. They're just words; say them. Did Tywin Lannister order my sister's murder?"

It was very likely that, more than his insistence, it was the demanding tone of Oberyn's voice that drew a reaction from the princess this time. Seeing the way her chin turned up at that, Robb though it was more from defiance than defensiveness that her next words took form.

"I am many things, princes Oberyn, but the keeper of the Red Keep's filthiest secrets is not one of them." The princess said coldly, deliberately. "I don't understand why you seem to be convinced of the contrary."

Oberyn smiled that long, thin smile of his, the one that meant he was enjoying something; the one that preceded violence. Robb started taking the possibility of having to bodily restrain the Red Viper a little more seriously.

"Ah, but you see, you  _are_." And his dark eyes lost all humor, all levity. "A little bird whispered to me that the answers I seek are now walking by my side. You are the only Lannister in this camp. I think you are the one with the answers."

The princess' lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. It was like watching rocks clashing together and ignite the sparks – at least so it seemed, until she got in under control. When she did react, it was with a small smile that could cut glass... and Robb was stunned, because he finally saw something in her that he could recognize, in that little twist of her lips. A sharpness that he recalled from both her mother and father.

He had seen what fierceness looked like on the princess' face, but not like this. Not quite so bitter.

"Varys has always had a flair for the theatrical." The princess deadpanned… and Oberyn actually laughed. It was a laugh so dry that it scrapped against Robb's nerves.

Varys was it? What did they call him?

…the Spider.

"That he has: it distracts people from his more subtle workings. And he never actually helps anyone. He just wanted me focusing elsewhere because I was promising trouble." Oberyn's eyes fixed on the princess and that was a threat if Robb had ever heard any. He had a mind to snap at the prince to tone it the fuck down, because if this dornishman thought Robb would allow this to go any further than mere  _hints_  of hostility, then the prince did not know him as well as Oberyn liked to think he did.

Obviously, his tension was felt, because Oberyn instantly turned to him. "Don't worry, my northern friend. I have no intension to cause the princess harm. I only want the truth."

_So you keep saying…_

But the princess lifted her chin minutely at that, and though it was a small movement, she had been so still all this time that it made that infinitesimal gesture as noticeable as if stone had moved.

"You already know all there is to know. What you want is something I cannot give you." the princes said, for the very first time speaking when she was not spoken to. And from Oberyn's reaction, it was as if her words inflamed him. His attention concentrated on the princess so hard that it might have been a falling avalanche.

"I want the  _truth_." Oberyn countered hotly, insisting on that word as if it was the pinnacle of his being. "I want to hear it from the lips of a Lannister, even if  _you_ are the only Lannister available, Princess."

But in the time it took for the prince to speak and the silence to take a breath after his words, the air changed. Oberyn changed.

"Tell me. I  _know_  you know." His eyes swam with almost vulnerable emotion, his voice was softer, beseeching, and the contrast it made with the harshness from before was sharp. "I know, not because I was told so, but because I know  _you_ , Myrcella, and I know that you are as possessed by the truth as I am …Our blood haunts us."

Robb's eyes snapped on her face. Those words, so softly as they were spoken, had shaken her. There was a frown on her face as she gulped and shook her head in denial… and the gesture made her look smaller somehow, though she was still sitting as straight and stiff as before.

Perhaps it was the helplessness of it. The hesitation in her eyes, the confusion that for a moment became transparent in her face; that small hint of fear…

Robb sensed it, as any predator would smell fresh blood. Oberyn sensed it too… and his reaction made Robb understand perfectly why the princess had been so unmovable before, why she had chosen to be heartless.

"Speak the truth to me. I  _need_  it; not knowing, consumes me." And the passion in his voice, was almost encumbering. He looked half crazed with his enthusiasm to just break her apart and Robb felt his muscles tense at the sight of such aggressiveness. Unfortunately for Robb and the princess also, Oberyn was a clever man and did not move an inch in the princess' direction, lest he should give the King in the room a reason to throw him out of it.

_Damn the man to seven hells!_

" _Say it_ _!_  Gregor Clegane went to his grave admitting every crime had had ever done but this, and until I know the truth I will be a wraith walking this earth. I will never know peace if I can't have the truth."

But he made a mistake in showing her such vicious intent when the princess was giving her first signs of relenting. The instant Oberyn had pushed against her momentary vulnerability, he'd killed it, and with it had died any chance he had had of getting the answers he so desperately longed for. He acted like a warrior would and attacked her at the first crack… when he should have probably gone gently and coaxed her with patience. But patience was a trait that Oberyn was sorely lacking in, especially when he was in such a passion.

Robb saw the princess take a deep breath before she spoke.

"I do not deny that you have the right to the truth, my prince, but it is not in  _me_  you should look for it, only because of whose blood flows in my veins." She sounded so sharp it was a wonder they didn't hear something tear at her words. "You have no  _right_  to ask me to become a part of something that happened when I had not even been born. I will not, and I never shall."

There was a finality in her tone that brokered no bargaining. She did not seem frail or uncertain then, nor did it seem to matter to her that she was so apparently outnumbered and friendless. She didn't seem to be giving a single fuck about it… which, though admirable, was also bloody reckless!

Oberyn jumped to his feet, stalking about the room like a caged animal, eyes never leaving her for a couple of moments.

It was a strange experience in Robb's opinion, to see how different reactions anger could cause on two such dissimilarly passionate people. Where Oberyn burned as flame, the princess… she seared like ice. Her anger didn't erupt; it accumulated and instead of inflaming her temper, it made her cold and sharp as frostbite. For the first time, Robb saw a glimpse of what was truly dangerous in this woman, sleeping as it was under layers of vibrant dresses and sweet smiles, sharper words and pretty lips. It was not how his mother thought, nor how Sansa had warned. It was not even what he himself had imagined. Perhaps Myrcella Baratheon didn't even realize it herself (he was sure that if she had, she would have been more careful about concealing that part of herself as well), but Robb had known enough killers to never miss the gift for it when he saw it in someone.

 _So strange_ , he though absently as he took her in.  _She is capable such honest sweetness, such true kindness… and yet she is a born hunter_. Her fury burned alive behind her eyes, but the rare thing was that she did not lose precision because of it like most; on the contrary, it seemed to focus her, solidify her into firmness and total clarity of purpose. The more Oberyn raged, the angrier she grew at his impudence - and the firmer her answers, her refusal. Robb was starting to think that this whole thing was pointless; the princess would likely never give in. She was patient, and where she had no agency but her own person, her ultimate weapon was control over herself.

…A true predator.

Had Myrcella Baratheon been born a man, on a battlefield she would have been lethal, whether her chosen weapon were sword or lance, teeth or nails[3].

Oberyn stopped his pacing and stood still right in front of the princess' chair. He crouched, so that they were eye to eye and spoke to her as if he was snarling. It was all Robb could do not to grab and shake him.

"You seek the  _right_  from me… Where is this ' _right'_? There is none of it in this world. There was none of it for my sister and her children, why should you and I be any different!"

She looked at Oberyn for long moments, taking in every line made by another year in bitterness, how his anger only heightened his sorrow and how plain it was on his face for her to see. It was as if the Viper of Dorne had placed himself so close so that the princess could have no chance of missing the reaction she was causing him.

"Why now, if I may ask, prince Oberyn?" She asked, sounding as if she truly wanted to know. It took some nerve to ask Oberyn a question like that, or any kind of question, when he was in such a state.

But the Viper answered her truthfully. His passion was proof of that.

"Because now is my last chance! Because before you did not know and now you do. Because before you were a child and now you're  _not_."

The princess looked away from him then, staring ahead, eyes void. She said nothing to that and that silence of hers seemed to anger Oberyn the more it lasted.

Robb wondered when he would know how much was too much. How long should he let this stupidity carry on?

Perhaps he should have stopped it from the beginning.

But the more it went on and the stronger his conviction became that if he intervened now he would only be delaying things and this same conversation would go on in another time, at another place, without Robb there to oversee things… which could not be allowed. Oberyn could be volatile in the best of cases; when his sister was the matter of discussion, the Viper was downright destructive, even to himself. Besides, Robb liked to think that the princess could decide herself which confrontation she could deal with and which ones she could not. She seemed a realist that way: she would not face a danger that she knew she could not overcome.

But Robb should have remembered that the princess was a proud creature as well. What if her pride had made her bite off more than she could chew this time?

"Why won't you give me this one thing?" Oberyn snapped, impatience starting to overrun him. "I am not asking for so much…"

"But you are." The princess countered readily. Her eyes rose and she met Oberyn's rising temper with cold steel. "If the truth is all you wanted, I wonder why you took the trouble of coming so far north. Perhaps it would have been better had you joined one of my uncles. You'd be halfway to King's Landing by now, as all those who have wronged you are there, not here."

Oberyn's entire countenance sharpened. "Oh you think I should have, don't you? So it  _is_  to Tywin Lannister's head I must ask for?"

The princess' lips thinned.

"Tywin Lannister's head is to be found on top of his own shoulders, my prince, and so are his crimes, whatever they may be." she said, steadily, though speaking faster than before. "You're welcome to ask the man himself or whoever else you wish. I do not care either way, as long as you leave me out of it."

Oberyn stilled, his lips twitching to draw back as if preparing to snarl.

"Careful Myrcella. No man has ever dared mock me and lived long to tell about it." the prince gritted out, making Robb turn his eyes to glare at the side of the dornishman's face. Idle threats were below him.

But the princess did not wilt, on the contrary, her eyes flared, pools of green fire trapped in her earthly flesh.

"I  _am_  no man…[4]"

Robb felt the corner of his lips twitch a little upwards, but he steadied himself quickly. This was not the time. Later, perhaps.

Oberyn on the other hand drew himself up to his full height.

"Very well. If you won't listen to a plea than I will appeal to you in a way that you might understand: you  _will_  give me what I want because you  _owe_  it to me." The Red Viper's eyes glinted, his teeth were grinding. "What is it they say about Lannisters and debts?"

The princess paled considerably and this time she didn't bother to hide her glare or school it down with self-imposed apathy.

"I owe you nothing." she said hotly between gritted teeth.

"You owe me your life!" Oberyn snapped, his voice cracking harshly, displaying his growing anger. The princess didn't so much as flinch; not even a single eyelash of hers moved.

"No, I do not." The insisted again, as unflappable as ever. " _Obara_  is the one I owe my life to, not you. And I don't see her here, claiming that debt." a small smile twisted her face into a mask of distain. "I wonder why that is."

Though there was nothing in her tone that suggested it; on the contrary. In that moment more than ever the absence of Oberyn's other daughters felt like a chasm in so united a family. Oberyn too saw her words for what they were, and his face showed it.

But it was not the viper of Dorne that spoke back to that, but rather, his most pious-looking daughter.

"Don't be so coy Myrcella. I don't think you wonder about that at all." Tyene Sand said, looking up from her embroidering with an air of complete nonchalance. Her eyes though told a different story. "My sister is a loyal woman. She values boldness and admires bravery… and somehow you have managed to steal her love as well."

The princess' eyes turned to Tyene and for the first time Robb saw feeling on her face, true and undiluted… and it amazed him. Because there was hatred in her eyes when she looked at Tyene Sand, a feeling that ran cold and deep, and as fierce as Robb had ever seen. The intensity of it stunned him, as did the way it changed nothing in her except for how her eyes flared as if torches had been lit inside her skull. Perhaps it seemed so because she was suddenly so very pale. Wildfire green, some said. Robb did not know; he had never seen that strange substance. But he did see the fists the princess had made in her lap, without bothering to hide them anymore… and Robb wondered if perhaps Tyene Sand knew the princess hurts better than Oberyn ever could, and could twist a knife in them much faster than the princess realized.

Or maybe they just plain hated each other and Robb had never noticed before.

"If you think anyone could  _steal_  anything from your sister, then perhaps you don't know her as well as you should like." The princess rebuked with a scoff, that twist of her lips so openly mocking… so very familiar all of a sudden.

Robb had seen that little twist of lips that could bite like a fishhook catching on skin. Seen it on her mother's face years ago, a face that for the first time the princess' was starting to resemble more than just a distant echo of familiar coloring.

"If anyone  _could_  steal anything from Obara, it would be you." The lady Tyene smiled softly. "To me, that speaks of a certain cruel irony."

"To you, it would." The princess countered, eyes bright with violent feeling, making those simple words sound as disparaging as any insult would… and insult that Robb did not understand but Lady Tyene certainly did. She fixed a hard stare on the princess and just as easy, like a thin glass breaking, the illusion shattered. She was not the chaste maid anymore. She was the viper's daughter.

"Perhaps you can stand to refuse a man his only wish, Princess, and make a mockery of all that is right and just in this world. It does not surprise me that you would. You may sit there and deny my father his due as well… but I dare you to look  _me_  in the eye, and say you don't owe  _me_  anything." Lady Tyene said as she stood up quietly and moved to sit in the chair that her father had vacated.

Robb kept his eyes on the princess, on how her breathing sped up by just a fraction, how her knuckles were turning whiter than her face. She was unraveling ever so slowly and she wasn't even realizing it. It made him feel the heat of all the unsaid things between these two women, secrets that burned just under the surface. They thickened the air, making it difficult to draw breath.

"Don't you remember how you screamed Myrcella?" the Lady Tyene asked, pleasantly enough to make Robb rethink all that he'd ever known of this woman. "I do. I could never forget it. Remember how I put you back together, wound after wound. How I stayed with you for weeks?"

The princess stared down every word. That sneer on her face was not amusement; it was poison.

"Oh, I forget  _nothing_ , Tyene. …I wonder though if you do." Even her voice had changed: not quite so flat, it echoed with purpose, vibrating with all that lay underneath those words that fell from her lips as promises. For the first time the princess was threatening back, Robb realized. She was bone pale, eyes bright as if feverish, but her voice did not shake at all, not for a moment… and Robb wondered if she was fisting her hands so tightly in her lap so that she wouldn't have to wrap them around lady Tyene's throat. By the way they were eyeing each other, Robb took it to be a substantial possibility.

The princess smiled razors. "Go on; ask me." Her words were as soft as her eyes were feral… "Claim your debt."

But it was not an invitation. It was a dare, a threat… and Tyene Sand was too sharp to miss the nature of it, though what surprised Robb was her reaction: The seriousness with which lady Tyene pondered the hazard behind that challenge made Robb wonder of the leverage that the princess was capable of yielding, if even though so alone, she could still make the daughter of a prince think twice about anything.

But Tyene did not pause for long.

"I do claim it,  _Lannister_." she said after a short moment. "I remember a time when you were bleeding on my hands and I saved your life. I demand now that you live up to your name and pay your debt, as the only form of honor you understand demands of you."

Insults veiled could cut as sharp as those bluntly stated, Robb knew that, and for someone like him who found himself clumsy with the subtleties of word-games, the veiled ones were much more irritating. But the princess was not of that kind. She smirked and just like that, she put on her revulsion with the whole situation as if it had been a mask she had been hiding under her sleeve.

Amazing how much she could let show when she wanted to be understood…

"I remember too, Tyene. I remember that I was not the only one to bleed on your hands that day, and mine were not the only screams." The princess said evenly, her effort in restrain costing her that carefully schooled indifference. "And we both know that keeping me alive was only necessary because you were stupid enough to almost get me killed."

Lady Tyene narrowed those smoky eyes at the princess. "Don't try to trick me, Myrcella. I taught you how to play." She warned, speaking to the princess as if she were a child.

"No, you didn't. You taught me how to deceive." The princess countered, vehement enough to make Robb believe it. "And this is not me tricking you – which is the wrong word for us, by the way; it seems to imply we have a playful relationship[5]. This is me telling you that by all accounts, the debt you seek to claim from me has already been paid."

Robb had to admit it: Sansa could not have said it more accurately when she had told him that the princess was as slippery as an eel in water.  _Lannister_ princess – only keeping the promises that suited her, and slipping past others. The realization left a rather unwilling taste of disappointment in his mouth, though by all accounts, the princess had never made him any promise on that.

But Tyene had not opened all her cards just yet. And Robb could see by the twist of her face that she was about to yield harsher words than before.

He was soon proved right.

"Really, Myrcella… for someone that strives so hard to build an identity, you are strangely devoid of any foundation of character. You were never a Baratheon; you can never be dornishwoman, though Obara and Elia love to waste their time by indulging you; and now you refuse even to be a proper Lannister." Tyene smiled sweetly, as she played with the ends of her sleeve as if the topic was utterly inconsequential. "Honestly, the only thing left for you to be is a… what is it that they call children born out of wedlock in the crownlands?  _Waters_ , is it not?" Tyene's entire face seemed to lighten, as if she found the idea rather amusing. "If you refuse to live by a code -  _any_  code - then you become the only kind of bastard there is, my dear: one without family, rules, honor or worth. …Is that who you really are?"

Robb knew that speaking insults with a pleasant smile on ones face did not sweetened their taste; and yet the princess' face was so frozen that he thought for a moment she had not understood Lady Tyene at all… or perhaps understood too well, and in understanding, something inside her seemed to hurt. He had thought it impossible before, but the princess paled even more. The only part of her that resembled something alive anymore were her eyes, bright and shiny in deep-set groves.

Her words though, proved him wrong, even though they were spoken dispassionately. She was very much alive… and furious as well. So much so that as she spoke, she almost snarled.

"You people… Baratheons, Lannisters, Martells…" her deep green eyes passed by his as well and though she did not say it, Robb felt included in that list… and he too felt the prickle of her ire like frostbite. "None of you seem to realize a very simple truth: I don't give a crow's shit about any of your words or rules. I will be whatever the hell I chose to be… and you and your truths and debts can all go fuck yourselves."

At every ferociously-spoken word, Robb's amazement grew and by the time she was done, he could feel his eyebrows make a jump for his hairline, but he kept himself in line. Of all the ways this could have gone… But there she sat though, so primly spouting off obscenities, her smile mocking, all teeth and burning satisfaction even as she was breathless from the iron self-restraint she was under… it made Robb wonder if she bit off every word because she did daren't let herself speak louder, lest she should start screaming at them.

"You can thank Obara for that." The princess added, knowing she was twisting the knife in the wound harder and harder, until Oberyn's daughter grimaced to hold back her wrath, something which the princess enjoyed without the barest hint of shame or apology. "Now go ahead and to build your schemes around _that,_  if you can."

"This is no scheme, Princess, though I do not fault you for being unable to think in simpler terms." Lady Tyene said, though admittedly, she spoke in plainer tone than before. "And try to remember that it is not through any fault of mine that you're angry now, I only spoke of what I see to be true. If you don't like it, then you alone can change yourself."

How very neat, Robb found himself thinking, not without a touch of contempt. What Lady Tyene proposed was such a clean break: 'I offended you and you got angry because it's true and truth hurts; so give me what I want now and prove yourself different, prove me wrong.'

 _Deftly played…_ Except it took one look at the princess' face and her smile that seemed to be carved in it, to make Robb understand he was not the only one to see those words for what they hid.

"If I were as devoid of worth and moral bounds as you think me to be, Tyene… I would know the taste of you blood by now." The princess murmured slowly, turning those violent eyes to lady Tyene's face. "You seem confused. Allow me to explain – I shall use small words for your benefit this time. A life for a life: you saved mine and in turn I forgave you yours for endangering me in the first place. And afterwards… when I found out the truth about that day in the desert…" the princes took a deep breath and that was the only tremble in her tone. The  _only_  one.

"Obara made me promise. She too called me a Lannister and demanded her due.  _I didn't bleed for you and save your life_ , she said to me,  _so you could murder my sister_. She made me swear in blood and fire that I wouldn't kill you… and so my debt would be paid." The princess leaned in, not so much as Oberyn had before, or even his daughter, but that small gesture she made seemed somehow more imposing on the rest of the room, because the princess had chosen to be stone… and stone was not supposed to breathe or feel of even move. When she did, it was amplified. "That is the  _only_  reason I allow you to still breathe in my presence. …So you see, the Lannister in me might have just saved your life, therefore I suggest you take care the next time you strive to provoke me by denying me my worth."

The satisfaction she felt as she spoke twisted her face into something dark… much more so than Robb felt he had been prepared to face from her. His eyes looked at her then… and saw a different creature. Why had he ever felt he knew this woman?

But the silence stretched and this time, it was Tyene that could not seem to break it. For some reason, that seemed to amuse the princess in a very crude way.

"What is it? You really thought I wouldn't try to find out what happened that day in the desert? You did, didn't you?" but the idea dint amuse her anymore. It angered her. "It never even occurred to you that I would not have rested without finding out the truth of it. But your father is right, Tyene: I am just as obsessed by the truth, that ugly whore, as he is."

The princess had such a vacant smile on her face that it seemed almost a snarl and in that moment she looked as maniacal as Oberyn had before her, though her unnaturally even way of speaking made her into a much more disturbing sight.

"I choked on every breath until I found out. I understood the reason why my death was so demanded… but why  _Trystane_? I could not see the sense of it: why kill a prince of Dorne?" The princess took a deep breath to steady herself perhaps. Her pulse-point was hammering; Robb saw the flutter of it on her neck. Had she loved then, before? All about her in this moment told him that the answer to that was yes. Loved and lost… and hated for it too.

"And then I understood… there was no sense to it at all. Gerold Dayne never possessed any of it. He was just angry that Trystane was standing in the way." The princess stopped and perhaps it was so that she could assess the effect of her words. Tyene Sand didn't give it away easily, but then again, she didn't say anything else either. She just gulped and kept her face still.

"Look at you, standing so unmoved… so arrogant." The princess mocked, and that did get a reaction: Lady Tyene scowled. "As if we don't both know that it was _you_  who suggested the Darkstar for your little plot. Arianne, stupid as she may have been, had enough sense to fear him…  _my beautiful dark blunder_ , she called him." And her lips thinned with her resentment then, though the princess spoke as if she felt nothing and saw no one but Tyene herself. "Pretty faces were ever her weakness. But she trusted you above all others, and it was  _you_  who convinced her to put her faith in the wrong man… because you knew he was the kind of man that would most likely kill me outright, didn't you? Was that how you planned to push prince Doran's hand and drag Dorne in the War of Five Kings? By killing a princess?"

Tyene immediately straightened, and whether it was in annoyance or contempt, Robb could not tell. "Tywin Lannister started a war when his Imp was abducted. He would have done the same for his niece. ' _no man sheds Lannister blood without_   _retribution'_ , remember?"

Robb blinked back his surprise. Well, these two seemed to be competing for who had the boldest nerve. There she stood, the daughter of a prince of Dorne, admitting crimes of kidnapping and attempted murder of a royal, and she spoke of it as if it was nothing. But the admission seemed funny to the princess: she chuckled though it was a sound so hollow it raised the hair on the back of Robb's neck… and he sensed that she  _meant_  to be unnerving, or at least, that she would be pleased to known she was. He had always sensed goodness in her, kindness… and now for the first time he was seeing the other side of it: the uncompromising totality in her, a sense of relentlessness that told him she would see this through to whatever end; that she had made that choice the moment she asked him to step aside and let her deal with this alone. And Robb knew from the gleam in the princess' eye that she was not short of cruelty she could deal out to meet that end she wanted, nor would she hesitate to inflict it.

Something somewhere had cracked her. Tyene had done it, though perhaps she might wish she hadn't.

"Of course. Abduct. That has a nicer ring to it than murder, I suppose. But then again, so many things change in the desert. After all what's one more dead child, a few more massacred knights?" The princess' voice lowered, thickened. "I wonder though, what did prince Doran have to say when they told him that his daughter's ambition and stupidity ended up killing his son." her smile was cruel then, a twist of the knife in the wound. "Does your most beloved cousin even know, Tyene, that you lied to her? That you  _knew_  the Darkstar would want feed me steel instead, and kept it from her?"

Tyene was quick to rise to it. "So clever. You've' always been so clever Myrcella, but you cannot manipulate the truth into what it's not. What we did was senseless I admit, but Arianne  _never_ … I could not have…"

"Liar." The princess hissed intensely… but a breath later she was collected, and smiling daggers again and her voice lost that sizzling breathlessness, but not that arresting intensity. "You always twitch your ring finger when you lie… and I remember you screaming at him to yield, to stop. I remember you telling him to come back and let the Darkstar have me, right before he got an arrow shoved through his eye socket."

Tyene jumped to her feet, sudden and shaking, her ire molding that gentle face into a more recognizable version of her fierce sisters. "Don't you speak to me about Trystane. He was a brother to me, I  _loved_  him!"

"You  _killed_  him." The princess countered coldly, deliberately, teeth grinding against her wrath. "And had it not been for your sister, I would have  _carved your heart out with a dull blade for it_. …How  _dare_  you ask me for anything and call  _me_  unworthy?"

The Lady Tyene flushed at those words, and then, once their meaning truly set in, her anger flared so bright that the lady who was usually such a calm and gentle-looking sight, shook from her ire. Robb saw with the corner of his eye that Oberyn, who so far had been strangely silent, now stepped forward, in range of his daughter if he should need to restrain her.

" _You shut your mouth!"_ Tyene spit out with astounding malice, her voice rising as she started to lose her temper. "What do  _you_  know? It's  _your_  fault he died in the first place! He was  _never_  even meant to be there!  _Yours_  was the only blood that was supposed to be spilled that day."

The princess lifted her chin at that.

"It was, remember? You keep repeating how you saved my life."

Tyene stared the princess down for moments that felt very long, before she too realized that there would be no bending her, not any way, whether by threat or guile. That realization passed between the two women like a lightning bold, connecting them in a moment of perfect understanding of one another; and where Tyene took a step back, admitting her retreat, the princess only looked on. If she felt any triumph for being undefeated, she did not show it. Her eyes were cold the planes of her face so harsh that instead of lovely, it made Robb think of sharp things he might cut his palms against.

After an exchanged look with her father, Tyene turned back on the princess and smirked, shaking her head a little…

"Oh, you're  _good_ , Myrcella. You really are." Tyene said in an ambiguous tone that bordered between spiteful and acknowledging. Something perhaps, that fell on the dark side of respect. "But I know what your heart's desire is and I tell you this: you will  _never_  get it." Something like dark triumph lit those smoky viper eyes and the glittered with noxious loathing like cold moonstones. Robb felt the chill of it seal into the very air of the room. It had been a while since he had been in the presence of such open hatred. "I wish you a lonely life, Myrcella and I'm sure you'll have it, because you don't believe in anything and nobody will ever believe in you." Tyene chuckled, a dark sound that invited a scream. "You will forever be the wanderer without a or a name to can your own, without anyone who cares for you and anything you hold dear, because, my dear princess, you don't have enough heart to love anyone better than you love yourself."

After such venom, the silence that fell made Robb's ears ring and he found himself, strangely, almost anxious when he looked at the princess - anxious that is, for her reaction. There was something within him that told him he would not be able to stand himself if he saw tears in her eyes after this.

He should have known better.

It had taken nothing less than a direwolf a breath away from tearing her apart to reduce her to tears. When he saw her face so frozen into that impassive mask, as unaffected as if all of Tyene's words had been wind, he realized that perhaps the princess thought nothing but the certainty of death deserved her tears after all.

It might have been the bravest thing he'd seen in a while…

But then the princess smirked – and there it was: the difference between them. She didn't stop at bravery, or dignity. She wanted retaliation as well and judging by that look on her face, she was not so far from pushing back with the same viciousness that came to shove at her. Had Robb been in her position… perhaps he would have too. But there was that gleam in her eyes that reminded Robb of the marked difference between them: where he would probably call it justice and stop once it had been done… she would call it vengeance, and exact the full measure of it, until her satisfaction was met.

But when she did speak, the princess' voice was much softer, conversational. Irritatingly devoid of emotion, enough to make the contrast with Tyene's over-brimming passion painfully obvious.

"What you just did, Tyene, I believe is called 'shadowing'." She explained as if she had not just had been screamed and cursed against. "I am told that it is a coping mechanism: you defend yourself against unpleasant impulses by taking  _your_  negative qualities and attributing them to someone else. It's quite common, I believe; my mother does it all the time. …You've always reminded me of her – perhaps that's why we get along so well."

It was plain by the way Lady Tyene's face twisted that this was either an old insult the full connotations of which Robb did not understand, or that the princess had known exactly how to insult Tyene, just about as well as Tyene knew how to get her to unravel. Either way, the Lady Tyene pressed her lips together in a thin line and made to step forward, eyes alight with rage. Robb made to stand, and he saw with the corner of his eye that Oberyn too had moved to catch his daughter and hold her back lest she should do something they would all regret.

But neither was fast enough.

"Go ahead." The princess invited around a dark chuckle as she caught lady Tyene's movement. There was a certain savage satisfaction in her expression then… and it did not lessen with the high-octane tension of the moment. "We'll see which one of us dies first, now that I'm not a child for you to abuse anymore."

Robb gave her a look full of disbelief, but nothing he saw in her face made him think that the princess was speaking aimlessly. Had Lady Tyene taken another step towards her, there probably would have been blood. Her green eyes told him that she would do it a heartbeat and enjoy it.

But the silence and the stillness kept and nobody moved long enough for some of the tension to relax and the moment to pass. That was when, quite unexpectedly, the princess herself got up.

"Well then, I think this should count as closure, my prince. And if it does not, then that sounds like an issue you might want to take up with your favorite god. You have abused my patience me in every possible way and cannot possibly have anything further to say to me."

And this time the princess did not bother to even look at him, let alone ask for permission to retire as she had unfailingly done ever since Robb had met her. That perhaps more than anything else about her demeanor told Robb just how out of sorts she was at the moment (that, or that she was angry with him as well), though she did not look it at all. She seemed as calm as still water, and if her eyes had not looked so fierce, Robb might even have believed it.

Just as she was leaving however, Oberyn made his final mistake. He stepped into the princess' path and Robb could tell from the look on his face that he did not intend at all to question her further. He seemed indeed to want to make peace; there was an appeasing expression that shaped his features into conciliatory expression, it showed… but apparently the princess didn't seem to yield in front of it. Perhaps it should speak of how much out of sorts she was beneath that harsh, unchanging appearance; perhaps she had no mind to ever forgive what happened here today. Either way, she did not step back when her way was blocked nor did her expression change a hairsbreadth. Robb was paying such close attention that he saw even the shiver that made her back stand straighter; she looked Oberyn in the eye with the full measure of her ferocity… and gave him the most empty smile Robb had ever seen.

It was a terrible thing to behold.

"Right, I almost forgot. This is my favorite part." But the acidity of her words was so virulent if could burn holes though steel. "Should I turn my other cheek for you, prince of Sunspear? You dornishmen seem to have a special fondness for my face after all."

Oberyn frowned deeply at her words, both offended and annoyed at them, at what she implied. But the princess did not leave him room to answer.

"No? Well, I suggest you make up your mind: either carve me up some more or step aside, because frankly, this conversation got redundant ten minutes ago and boredom suits me ill."

Oberyn's frown turned into a glare for a moment, but then he too smiled and in comparison, Oberyn meant it. It was not false, that note of respect that rang in his eyes, in that small smile. Though bitter, it was real.

The princess didn't give any sign of noticing it however. She kept walking and didn't look back for a moment, opening the door and without bothering to close it behind herself.

Princesses never did after all, did they?

ooo

She could hardly seeing where she was walking. All that passed in front of her eyes were walls, stone, windows blurring colors. She was blinking so fast, that too was a hindering factor besides the fact that she was… she was…  _fuck_ , but she was  _furious_  enough to tear apart the whole world and dance on the ashes like a mad woman!

_I hate her! I hate her more than I have ever hated anyone!_

And it was true. Myrcella had tasted hate often these past few years and had always tried to keep it under control, under a very tight supervision. She had never wanted to be blinded by it… To her, hatred had never come without a cost. Myrcella did not invest such emotion for just anyone. Most of the people that caused her to feel that way, were people that she had once held close and that had hurt her. All those that she hated, she had at one point or another loved with the same intensity.

Tyene had been the same. That is, until Myrcella had learned the truth of her nature.

_That cursed spawn; a harpy from the deepest pits of hell._

Tyene was not easy to hate either. Myrcella didn't  _want_  to hate her. She just wanted to kill her.

But that promise made over such dire circumstances stayed her hand, and in situations like this, when Tyene was ben on reminding her just how much she was worth her loathing and every way which she earned it, Myrcella felt the chains of that promise bind her so tight her bones might snap.

 _Gods, I could_ choke _on all this anger…_

And once she realized that, Myrcella leaned a hand against the cold stone of the hallway and took a deep breath with closed eyes. She tried to calm down, to get her bearing again… but her ribcage felt like it was being gnawed by some beast trapped there that wanted out.

_Enough! Enough already…_

Myrcella dug her nails in the unyielding stone, felt them catch and felt the bite of pain. It focused her at just the right amount. Enough for the next breath not to catch on the scream lodged in her throat. Enough for her to gain control of her senses again; not to feel overwhelmed by them. Enough to feel the musty air around her, the scent of rain from the open window and the little draft of the hallway. The weight of her shoes, her hair, her dress, her boots and the daggers stripped on her person.

_Think of something happy. Think of Tommen in the shade of the great trees of the Red Keep, with his kittens. Think of the Watergardens…_

She didn't dare think of Trystane, though his smile did flash behind her eyelids without her permission… and then her throat caught for a different reason.

 _'Fuck them. What do they know? What did they ever know of us? Nothing.'_ She allowed herself to remember sometimes, how it had felt when he had taken her hand so gently, and kissed her knuckles. _'Only you and I matter to you and I._ _ **[6]**_ _'_

He'd told her that the day before he got killed. It was how he had convinced her to let sir Aerys take him with them, despite what Princess Arianne had wanted. And because she had been a silly girl charmed with his dark eyes and sweet smiles, Myrcella had insisted. She had wanted her princes with her. He always brought her happiness and in him Myrcella had always found solace… and she had fought on and on for his coming, insisted like a spoiled little brat that she was.  _Starfall will feel so lonely without him_ , she'd thought.

And he'd died.

It wasn't true that only Tyene had killed him, in her heart Myrcella knew that. They  _all_  had killed him. Arianne, playing the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice[7]. Tyene, with her unconditional hatred and her indifference to murder. Myrcella too, for not running fast enough, for not being smart enough, for not being  _Lannister_  enough, thinking with her heart and trusting the wrong people! She could have saved his life if she'd known sooner that you're supposed to kill your enemies, not befriend them. (Sometimes she willingly forgot that, had she been such a person, perhaps she would not have had such feelings of regret at all. But she was not so accomplished in actually  _being_  as cold as she seemed.)

Myrcella knew that she could have saved his life when, as their caravan got attacked, she'd had taken his advice and ridden hard away from the plain. But she had not. She got scared, called for help. But Aerys died, Trystane died. All her guard too, slaughtered like dogs, and even a few of Ariane's – she who had ended up sprawled in the hot sand, screaming and heaving in horror at the sight of her dead little brother.

She remembered only small bits of it after that, fractions as if she was remembering a nightmare. She had screamed so much, Obara had told her months later. The whole desert had shivered with her screams, but Myrcella did not remember them. She remembered pain and blood and burning sun and stones. She remembered Obara pulling her from under Trystane's corpse and telling her to run.  _'Ride like a demon, or you'll be dead.'_  And Myrcella had. She had ridden hard and for what had felt like days, but must have only been only hours. She remembered getting caught , tears and screams… and the Darkstar's smile as he threw her down and played with her like a cat does with a mouse, all of his  _'fuck you bloody'_ as he trapped herunder his immense weight and ripped her clothes, hitting her hard enough to splinter bones; Myrcella had been born the maps of it for weeks… She remembered his blade making small cuts, the steel eating away at her ear little by little, till a mutilated stump was left. The blinding pain she'd felt had been a shock; she was a princess - she'd never known  _true_  pain until that day. But each time she'd fainted, he hit her and made her wake.

And yet even through all of that, his voice had still rung clear in her ears, it still did, so far away from Dorne and years later.

 _'Look at me. Look here, Lannister._ This _is how you start wars_ _ **[8]**_ _'_  he'd said close to her face, sliding the flat of his knife against her cheek… he'd laughed as he cut her to the bone.

There were those who said she had been lucky that he saw fit to play with her before killing her. He'd been half delusional from the heat and the poison of his wounds where Obara's spear had cut him; where Nymeria's gaggers had buried themselves. Had he been saner perhaps he would have killed her the moment he got his hands on her. Lucky, they said, that he preferred to carve her up a little ' _like warm pie_ '.

_'You won't be so pretty anymore, Lannister.'_

Obara's spear through his gut had quickly put an end to that, however. But Myrcella had not seen it.

_Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Why? Why was she remembering all this? Myrcella closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threated her. Were they of anger, or frustration, or plain heartbreak, she did not know, could not tell. Her feelings were in that moment woven together so tightly that she could not untangle them. Anger crushed them all though and perhaps the tears were the way of it spilling out of her, when she could hardly contain it any longer.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt like being torn form the inside.

_…forever be the wonderer without a home and without a name, without anyone who cares for you and anything you hold dear…_

_…nobody will ever believe in you…_

Damn her! Damn her to the deepest, cruelest hell for seeing, for understanding. For being so cruel.

_I hate her!_

And there is was, the whisper of her darkest heart.

 _Kill her… you know how to do it. You know you could. Who would ever care? You won't see the Snakes ever again. Why would you care for a lost friend halfway across the continent where she will never think of you again? Kill her,_ kill _her, rip her apart!_

Myrcella bit her lip so hard that the inside of it broke and let her have a taste of her own blood.

 _I can't. I_ can _… but I won't. I promised and I keep my promises._

 _I do. I will. Fuck her and what she thinks she knows. I_ keep _my promises!_

How she wished to heave and shout. To scream to high heaven and shatter hell. It hurt that much to contain so many feelings and be so still, so quiet.

_So vulnerable…_

The feel of it was something Myrcella hated beyond all things. Something she never wished to feel, yet there it was. In the face of such aimless rage, she was forced into helplessness once again. And it brought her right back to where she'd first known it, because the memory of it had been brought too far in the surface for her mind not to catch at it now when she was so exposed, like a hook catches a fish. And she remembered, clearly, how it felt to be pressed beneath a body, dead and alive, against stones hot enough to scorch. What it felt to be tied, to be held down, to be breathless, helpless, lost. The pain and every wincing nerve. Even now the air had scream smears on it. She flinched from the noise in the silent hall.[9]

_Stop it!_

Anger at her own foolishness had always been what got her out of these self-induced moments of weakness.

 _Stop acting like a_ child _! You are a princess, you are a survivor._ Act _like it!_

It was easier than it looked, than it first seemed, it really was. There: one breath, then another, and another, until the next did not catch. One step, then another, and another, until you could see where you were going again. She smoothed out the front of her dress as she walked, passed a hand through her hair, fixed her braid over her shoulder, made sure it still securely covered her ear. Routine movements, one after another. Focused outwards on something else, _anything_  else: the chill, the scent of food, the voices. It all came to her as if form far away but the further she walked, the clearer the picture became. She was coming back, little by little.

She could not go on acting as if she was alone. She was  _never_  alone.

_It's not so hard, remember? You've done it hundreds of times._

The first step is the hardest, she knew. Once she had taken that, the others were just a question of repeating. To put distance between herself and her emotions when they raged so furious inside her was like trying to out splinters under your nails, but it was not impossible. Indeed, it was when she was most proud of herself for being able to control them, so in a way, it was a challenge. And Myrcella knew the tricks: she focused in everything  _out_  of herself; took in every detail about her surroundings and focused on them with all her might, allowing her feelings to fade in the distances, to quieten until she could control them, even them out, separate them, deal with them and finally lock them away. For now, she would ignore them. Door after door, she closed them and walked on. There would be time later, in her room.

_Where…_

She recognized the hall as she looked about. Her feet had taken her without her conscious thought to the only place she knew her way around. She saw the open double doors in the distance and made for the open air. She would go riding, Myrcella decided in that moment – or was it realized. Somehow it seemed that this was where she had been heading towards from the moment she stepped out of that godforsaken room. She wanted to ride bareback across the Riverlands, feel the wind and the freedom that flying allowed her. She wanted to breathe and this castle was crushing her…

_Yes, I will go riding…_

"Your grace!"

Myrcella stopped short, tried hard not to close her yes, not to hiss. Not to seem impatient. It was nobody's fault but Oberyn's fixation and Tyene's malice that she had lost her temper. She told herself to remember it.

_I will not be a fool._

So Myrcella turned and met sir Brynden's rough smile with a polite one of her own. It did her no good, the old knight saw through her immediately. His frown told him so.

"Are you well, princess? You look pale."

 _Do I?_  "I am well, thank you sir. Perhaps it's the closed quarters. I would like some fresh air."

The knight smiled and with a simple 'allow me to escort you, your grace', he offered his arm, and Myrcella saw no harm in taking it. It was always better to be seen in the company of esteemed men, and sir Brynden was a noble man and a Tully predisposed kindly towards her, in a place where Tullys seemed to openly hate her. He was a true knight too, all said; the last of his kind, same as sir Barristan and, in Myrcella's mind at least, sir Aerys as well. He leant honor[10] to any man or woman he decided was worth his time. Myrcella focused on that.

That distraction too helped quell her emotions. It was easier when she was not alone. But when she said of her plans to go riding, the old knight seemed troubled.

"It's not wise to go alone, princess. Peace has been done by the kings, but the land is not quite so safe yet. Allow me and a few of my men to come with you. Or anyone else you might be more comfortable with."

Or maybe he just wanted her to be guarded so that she did not attempt anything underhand, as an enemy might. But then if it was so, why give her the pick of the litter?

_Because you're all alone up here silly. It doesn't matter who you chose. None of them are yours._

But she was so tired of pretending. Enough for one day, she told herself. So what if he wanted her guarded?  _I don't care._  Myrcella sighed, tuned to look at the old knight and found herself giving him her first true smile. She saw that her expression surprised him. She felt very fragile in that moment, so violently was she bruin on the inside still, so very exposed. He must have sensed it.

"I do not wish to disturn Dacey only for a ride; and in her place, I cannot think of anyone else in the hands of whom I'd rather put my safety on than you, sir." Her smile tried to take on a playful turn then, though Myrcella knew from experience that she was too tired to be truly convincing at it. "Though I warn you, I ride hard. Your men better be able to keep up."

Sir Brynden barked a laugh.

"Aye, I know. Half the King's army saw you race with the Sand Snakes, and told the other half." he said with a chuckle and he nodded to himself, his face telling her of his appreciation though his tongue did not. He was not one to give away many compliments this knight. Myrcella liked that very much.

And that was how, by focusing on the outside world and letting go of that monstrously egotistical way she felt her own pain, Myrcella fond that the thirst for blood and hurt that her emotions had, quelled and quieted in the background. Her skin was still tingling, but she did not feel quite so much on the edge of eruption anymore. She had stepped away from the edge… and it had been done so easily because she had quit looking down to the abyss and being fascinated with it.

"They told me no man in the north rides half so well as the southern princess." Sir Brynden said, and there was something in his tone that made Myrcella understand the joke in that statement: they might say that, but they did not like it, apparently. "I'd like to see what those words are worth."

She smiled wanly. "Only half of what people usually say is true, sir… the trick is deciding which half."

Sir Brynden chuckled again and Myrcella enjoyed the sound of it. Perhaps this knight really was as true voices made him to be; he certainly laughed like he meant it.

So Myrcella forgave him for nearing her to the table where some men were gathered, eating the last of their dinner. The courtyard was filled with them, and most were still on the table, while others were already going about their business. One look told her that they were some bannermen, important lords and minor ones, riverlords and squires. The company was mixed, but that she was in the middle of it made her instantly the center of their attention for a moment, as she was left alone while sir Brynden chose his men to escort her in her ride through the riverlands.

Myrcella took a deep breath and composed herself. She did not know how well put together she looked, but for the moment, she could not bring herself to care. That part had shivered away in Tyene's face when Myrcella had told her to fuck off. She was done caring for today. Tomorrow… she would be more sensible tomorrow.

_Just don't think on it so much._

When the silence fell around her though, Myrcella stilled as well. Immediately she thought she had done something wrong, that she was the cause for such open stares… but one look around her and she learned that she was not. What she saw when she turned almost stopped her heart.

The direwolf.

Huge and smoky grey, with molten gold in his eyes as he trotted towards her. Myrcella felt her breath catch in fear, but she held her ground, this time, just like last time. The creature approached her slowly though, as if he knew how much she was afraid of him, and perhaps that was true. His head bowed, just like it had when the King had 'introduced' them in the woods. As if to warn her he was not going to attack. Its last steps were careful and cautious, and Myrcella remembered as the larger-than-life wolf approached her; she remembered what she must do, and a recklessness that sometimes boiled over in her blood took her, a rebellion that flooded her veins when she felt she had nothing to lose and wanted to break free of all cages.

She reached her hand forward, slowly and palm up… and felt her heart almost give out when the creature pressed his warm snout in it, smelled her and her wrist, and then gave her a palm lick for good measure, like any dog would. It made Myrcella shiver… and then chuckle. She hoped that the edge of hysteria was not so noticeable in that laugh.

The wolf sat down on his haunches and looked at her in a manner that was eerily expectant.

 _What?_  She wondered.  _What do you want?_

But then she remembered. He may be a beast from horrifying tales, but he's still an animal. Of course he wanted food. So she stepped close to the table and took a piece of dried meat, offered it, trying to keep her hand from shaking.  _What if he takes my hand as well as the meat?_  It was a thought that occurred her too late, only when the wolf had already taken the treat form her hand. The care with which he did it astounded her into another laughter; as if he had lips and was using them, she thought. How very strange. How very extraordinary!

She became aware that the courtyard was fallen into tomb-like silence only too late, so taken she had been with the wolf and her fear of him and her daring against it. But when she did feel the dozens of eyes on her back and on her face, Myrcella felt the pressure of it.

She looked at the wolf, dared reach out again. Waited for it to choose whether or not he wanted to be petted, waited for it to near his big head to her and lower it a bit, so that she might scratch him behind one ear… and he did. All the while she thought, ' _why are they all looking at you?'_  as if the wolf could hear and answer back. He did not of course, because nobody was looking at him alone, even when he tossed his great head and gave her hand another lick.

 _They are looking at_ us _, aren't they? What a strange sight we must be to them…_

And they  _were_ : strange and placeless: the direwolf and the Lannister. It would not be so different from now when she married their King would it? They would always look at her as if she had taken a place that did not belong to her, that for which she had no place, no claim. As if she was an abnormality in their world.

 _Forever the oddity, the exclusion… you're constant in that, at least,_ she told herself, even though she was feeling her anger rising, her bitterness setting in.  _As if I chose it. I did not!_

The moment she felt her ire become part of the surface of her skin, the direwolf looked up at her with startlingly intelligent eyes, as if he could smell her emotions right out of the air as he could smell blood. They said that animals scented your fear. Perhaps they could scent your other feelings as well. …But those golden eyes were strange. Too knowing for any animal to possess. It made shivers of discomfort race up and down Myrcella's spine.

Then she realized that she was staring at a direwolf's eyes as if they might hold the secrets of the world, and she smiled at her silliness. She was being fanciful. Strange that she never was so as a child, when such things might be called normal, and she was being so now. Perhaps this was a late phase of her development that was finally catching up with her.

"He likes you, your grace."

Myrcella smiled as she looked up to find Dacey Mormont over her, in full armor. The other woman was smiling widely.

"To my great relief, at least he does not dislike me. It's a start." Myrcella said, as she straightened. Just as she did, the direwolf got on his four feet and after a last bump of his head against her side, he bounced away to his own place, leaving Myrcella staring after him in half amazement.

"I was told you are going riding." Dacey hinted. Of course hse would know.

"It was a spur of the moment decision. You are welcome to join us, of course. After all, you're my shield."

Dacey's smile, if possible got even wider. "That I am. I shall go have my horse saddled."

Myrcella looked around for sir Brynden then, trying to see him. She caught sight of his black-scaled armor at the corner of the courtyard. Their eyes met and the knight nodded, so Myrcella took that to mean he had found his men and turned to leave with Dacey for the stables. But she had not made two steps away from the tables set in the cobblers when she felt her shoulder bump hard with another and just as she steadied her step and turned to see who had been so careless… she saw the hidden smirk and  _knew_  the face.

Her blood boiled to the surface so fast it made her think she had only fooled herself in believing she was any calmer than she had been when she had left that room and Tyene's words behind.

_Why, you little shit._

This time though, it took only Myrcella one moment to decide her course of action. Just one, a single breath, a heartbeat. There was no doubt in her, no hesitation. She schooled her features into impassiveness for her own purpose and she did have the strength and patience to do it. She felt herself sharpen and all the void places inside her that her anger had exhausted filled now with new, vicious purpose.

This time, there would be no fucking about.

Her eyes pinned him and held him, and Myrcella saw the sneer die a little on that long face. The same face of the same man that some nights ago had pushed her into the ground in front of a hall full of the most important people of the north and the Riverlands.

_The same idiot._

She felt a little disappointed with the lack of variety. But one fool would be enough to make her point.

Aemon Frey sat his ass down on the table as if nothing had happened, right next to where she was standing, and then looked up at her with that complacent look on his face. He seemed to think as if he had singlehandedly won the war… but Myrcella noticed how her expression stopped him, how her eyes caught his and held them and that smirk died little by little on his face. She knew how she looked. Seeing his surprise now made her think that perhaps she had not made such a mistake in giving them their southern princess like a useless flower that night.

He won't know what hit him now.

"Tell me, boy, what is your name? I forget." Though she had not. The sternness in her voice cut him. What she had implied ruffled his poor feathers though, to her delight.

"I am no boy, lady, but Aemon of house Frey, younger brother to the heir of the Twins…" His eyes told her of his arrogance, his posture of his opinion. That look on her face though… It made her smile internally, fueled her fire, to know she would be whipping it out any moment now.

Myrcella raised one eyebrow. "Younger brother? Perhaps you should try for specificity: I am told there are many of your sort in house Frey." she saw the frown settle on his mousy face, enjoyed it; saw him open his mouth, stopped him. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. So tell me, Aemon of House Frey… for whom are you squiring?"

He looked surprised that she should know. As if there was anything else a boy like him could be doing. Younger brother to the heir mean the son of the Lord of the Twins. What else could he be but a knight in the making?

"For Brynden Tully." Was his answer. His teeth was starting to grind together already and she saw his hand twitching for his belt. Knew he wouldn't dare.

"Truly? Then I cannot account for your bad manners, boy. Are you not close enough to a great man to learn from his example?"

Her so open distain made his eyes widen and the anger grow behind them.  _Oh, come on Aemon of House Frey, I need to vent a little; don't make this so easy._

"Bad manners? Why you mistake me, surely - I just didn't see you there; one does not expect such fine a lady to be walking about among men. I beg your pardon though,  _lady_  Lannister. "

_Do you now?_

But instead of rolling her eyes at his predictability, she only smiled, pleasantly, though she was sure it was sharp enough to straighten a man's spine a little.

"Lady Lannister? You're not very bright, are you? There has not been a Lady Lannister in over twenty years. …And I will accept your apology when it's properly given."

Aemon of house Frey tightened his lips in an expression that was supposed to be intimidating. It might have worked better if he had not been sitting his ass down still, in a misguided attempt to offend her, undoubtedly, and if Myrcella had been a different person.

As it was, it only amused her.

"We don't apologize to lions up here; we kill them." He said, openly mocking. Careless, even. "That is the best you will get from me, girl.

Myrcella allowed herself to look amused. "' _Girl_?' You should have stopped at Lannister[11]." But she was bored now, and impatient for this man's blood. "Sir Brynden!"

Her voice was not so raised, but it was so silent in the courtyard that it was heard over the entirety of it. it might not have been needful: Brynden Tully was closer than she had expected, side by side with Dacey, and looking pissed off enough to make Myrcella think that, had it been not for her having a conversation with Aemon Frey, those tightly clenched fist would the Blackfish was sporting would have already smashed in Aemon Frey's insolent little moth.

"I think your squire needs a sharp lesson in manners, sir. May I have your permission?"

The old knight was surprised, but the severity in Myrcella's tone, the gravity of her eyes left no room for true dissention. Instead, the Blackfish even smiled at her.

"You do it or I will, princess."

Myrcella let her smile widen a fraction, before turning her head and focusing on her sole objective now. She felt her heartbeat drum into steadiness, her pulse in her ears giving her rhythm, surety. The world got sharper, her senses heightened by the moment. It was a wonder to have a clear objective… and she was about to make her statement.

They didn't see it coming. After all, so many ladies kept their hands crossed in front of them.

…how many ladies of Westeros kept skinny daggers in their selves?

Myrcella knew her strength and she used them wisely[12]. She knew she had never been very strong… but Obara had taught her to be as quick as a saw-scaled viper striking. Perhaps it was that speed, perhaps the fact that he did not expect it; it did not matter. By the time Aemon of house Frey knew what was happening it had already happened[13]: the narrow blade pieced flesh and bone and ebbed itself into the wood of the table, biting deep so that he would never be able to dislodge it even if he had the nerve. It happened just as her other dagger, a shorter one, found its home on the neck of Aemon of house Frey, right over his pounding pulse and shaved so close into his skin that a rivulet of blood bloomed its red flower and made its way down that worthless neck. Myrcella felt the pierce, heard the scream… didn't even blink.

" _Don't_   _move_." Was her whispered order, and he did not, even though his free hand was reaching for her (or perhaps to the hand she had nailed on the table, Myrcella did not know and did not care)

The scent of blood filled her nose and Myrcella inhaled it deep. Sweat and blood. So heady it made her teeth itch; more familiar than her own bath oils. This was not meant to be liked, Myrcella knew that…but that did not mean she did not revel in the taste of his fear.

But feral was not what she wanted to look now, not for too long now. She wanted to sound cool, and calm and reasonable. She didn't want them thinking she had lost her mind. She wanted all to see that this was very much willingly done, with purpose and not in temper. So she bit back her smile, didn't show her teeth. Instead she straightened a little, without moving her hands where she had pinned Aemon Frey, like a butterfly on a table.

"Now listen well boy, I will only say this once. I am Myrcella of house Baratheon,  _Princess_  of the Iron Throne. The blood of kingslayers and kingmakers flows in my veins, and  _you_ , No-one of house Nowhere… you will address me as  _your grace_."

Aemon Frey moaned, but didn't dare move because her short dagger was still biting at the soft flesh of his throat. Myrcella took the blade from over his pulse and brought the tip of it under his chin.

"You can't…" he grunted out.

"I can, I am.[14]" Factual, dry. A statement. And it didn't matter what he meant. With him, she could – everything. "Now, I am waiting for that apology… and I _don't_  like waiting." A little twist of the dagger she had stabbed in his hand was enough to almost make a grown man sob and drive that point home. Myrcella let the sounds he made slide over her like water off a duck. She did not feel sorry in the least for the mauling quim beneath her steel; but after the initial moment when her frustration finally unleashed, she found herself not even enjoying it anymore. It really was not about that anymore.

"You…"

Myrcella said nothing, only waited. She had seen no nerve in Aemon Frey. No bravery. He would squeal like a pig. He already was.

"I beg your pardon, your grace. I do. Please…"

Myrcella felt the thrill of it, the taste of retaliation, so heady. She gritted her teeth against it. he still dared show her anger. Very well then…

_I have a greedy heart, at my deepest… I am what you make me._

"How is it that you ought to apologies to royalty, boy?" she heard her own voice sound foreign. Stead as the beat of a calm drum, flat almost. She didn't know how she looked. She hoped she looked as composed as she always did.

But Eamon Frey had no answer for her, so she twisted the blade a little further in his wound. He was bleeding a trickle, but he would bleed more once she pulled the dagger out. The blade was thin enough to conceal in her forearm, but even the thinnest blade ruptured flesh and bone… and there were quite a few bones in ones palm.

"Don't you know?" she pushed, mercilessly. "The answer is 'on your knees'."

He gave her a look full of desperation, sweat beading on his face like the pig he was. "I can't move."

Myrcella didn't even blink… so the little swine kicked the stool from under him and kneeled in front of her.

Just as he did, she took the blade from out of his hand, and it made him curl into himself, there on his knees, holding his hand against him and not even having the decency to keep his moans to himself.

She held her chin up and her eyes hard when he looked up at her.

"I will kill you for this."

Myrcella only smiled. Some men never learn, do they?

"You couldn't kill me if you tried for a hundred years." She said coldly. And kept staring. Her dagger was still dripping with his blood, and it was auspiciously close to his face. Aemon Frey's eyes darting to it told her that, thick as he was, he did not miss it. Nor did he miss the way he was being stared at, like prey about to be torn apart.

"I beg your pardon for my insolence, you grace." He said unwillingly.

Myrcella thought on it a moment.

"I grant you a princess' pardon, Eamon of house Frey. And it is given so you may always remember what happens when your hand overreaches your grasp. That shall be your lesson."

And when she cut her dagger across his face, slicing it open from one corner of his forehead to the bridge of his nose, almost cutting it off… her hand did not shake and she did not feel the slightest hesitation.

"… and that is so you may remember it[15]." She stated as Eamon of house Frey twitched on the ground and screamed. "You're dismissed now."

"Dismissed?"

Myrcella turned to her left, where the horrified face of someone who very vaguely resembled the one she had just sliced open stared at her with both anger and fear.

"Indeed, sir. To hell or a master, as you prefer. I don't particularly care." And she did not. Not for him. She whipped her blade with the closes napkin and threw it on the table, without bothering to look around.

"Sir Brynden, I believe am ready to go now." She said, only because it was her way and without waiting for an answer made for the stables. As she went, she thought she heard the beginning of a strange sound behind her. It might have been a bear groaning, or another large animal, but after a moment and as she got farther, she could tell: it was rough laughter… and it haunted her steps to the stables.

She was flush with anger.

They were laughing at her! Laughing. She had almost killed a man, and they laughed?!

What did she have to do to gain a little bit of peace from these people?

As soon as she saw Sarabi out of her stall, Myrcella did not wait for anyone to even come close to her, as grooms always did, to help her up. She did not need it, she did not want it. she found herself on the brick of such emotion that she could hardly contain herself. She had thought she was being hard and strong back there, fearsome at the very least… but laughter had followed her steps.

The thought made her want to scream and kill something.

_Laughter…_

"Your knights better be fast, sir Brynden. I wait for no man." She heard herself say. She sounded haughty, proud. She sounded as if she was speaking steel even though she knew that the reason her voice was a little thicker was because she was on the brick of tears again.

_What is the matter with me today?_

She felt like a fresh wound. She was… Had Tyene split her open so hard? I don't care. I don't.

_Let them see me as I am. Let them fear me, or hate me or despise me as they please._

True to her words, she pushed Sarabi forward with her heels and the horse dove into a gallop immediately, neighing and almost bouncing on his back legs. Myrcella held on tightly and saw the men, lords and knights and squires alike dive out of her path as her Sand Steed took to riding at full pace without giving a single thought to who or what was in its way. Myrcella did not either, and saw them scatter like mice before her.

_As they deserve._

She had no thought for them, not any of them. And they better dive away, lest they should like the feel of Sarabi's hooves imprinted on their faces and their backs. She would have trampled all down without a second thought. She would have crushed the whole world beneath an iron fist in that moment.

_I stop for no man either. I am tired of pretending; Come what may and fuck the rest. Valar Morgulis._

* * *

[1] Taken off that witch woman that 'sacrifices' Danny's baby to give Drogo back his 'life'. Mirri Maz Something…

[2] The wording of this is exactly as Elisabeth Benet's words in Pride and Prejudice, the movie 2005 with Keira Knightly (perhaps they're the same in the book, i dunno)

[3] Jamie Lannister reference here (battle of Oroxos, to Robb)

[4] I think you all know where I stole this one from. But, for legal purposes: From 'the return of the king' Lord of the Rings, the movie, Eowyn's line as she kills the Witch King of Agmar.

[5] Quoted from Tyrion, from the book, I think. It's that moment when he has just been made hand and plays Varys, Littlefinger and Pycell about Myrcella's engagement.

[6] Taken after what Ygrite tells Jon Snow as they're about to climb the Wall – though I don't remember the exact wording. Right after that comes the famous 'don't betray me…' :P

[7] Verbatim from Arianna herself, in one of her chapters.

[8] In reference to what the Darkstar actually says to Arianne Martell as he points to the sword in his hand.

[9] And expression I found in tumbrl, NOT mine, though I don't know the origin. There were some picture on that post, from the new TV show, Hannnibal. Still, I renounce all credit.  _Not mine_ , again.

[10] He leant honor to anyone he served – the expression used for Sir Barristan the Bold Selmy, by Tyrion I think, though I'm not sure.

[11] 'Dwarf? Hm, you should have stopped at Imp.' – Tyrion Lannister to Janos Slynt.

[12] Yes, I did it. I just quoted Petyr 'Midlefinger' Baelysh… sorry.

[13] Robb Stark when he captures Jamie Lannister

[14] Tyrion, to Joffrey, the day when Myrcella left for Dorne and Joff caused a riot in the street that almost got him killed. Tyrion says that to deal ol' Joff right before he slaps the King.

[15] Same quote, from Kingdom of Heaven.


	11. The secret of Joy

**_8_ ** _. The secret of joy… is a mastery of pain[[1]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftn1)_

_“I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop and just worship; and you_ do _stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon. …Truth. What ferocity in your quest of it. You destroy and you suffer. In some strange way I am not with you, I am against you. We are destined to hold two truths. I love you and I fight you. And you, the same.”_

_Anais Nin_

Myrcella had not wanted to miss dinner. Nobody would have the pleasure of saying she was hiding, afraid or repentant, because it would be an insult to her, but also - and most importantly - because she was _neither_. That more than anything was why she had cut her ride short; though short was a term some would not use so liberally since she had spent the whole day outside without a single thought of the consequences.

 _Consequences are not for princes,_ her mother’s voice whispered in her head, snidely. Myrcella rolled her eyes.

_Yeah right. There’s a tactic could get you dead half-a-hundred different ways._

But even though she could - and would - show them a princess who knew no fear, once she felt her usual self again, Myrcella realized that what she had done had flied in the face of all the conduct she had beforehand chosen to keep. All the impression she had wanted to _create_.

She had been such a fool, hadn’t she? As if she could manage to wear only half the shades of her personality like a glove and hope not to slip up. _Hope!_ Ridiculous. She should have learned better by now – Dorne had taught her better. Had she so quickly forgotten? She had been submitted to so many flavours of shame, humiliation, betrayal… and even after thinking herself tempered, she _still_ had not been able to moderate her reaction to those very same emotions. _Such a waste. Her own pain, a wasted lesson._ Myrcella had thought she’d known better but she was still such a child sometimes. _A silly girl, with silly notions, who never learns![ **[2]**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftn2)_

By all means, it was not with her actions she took issue, but rather with the drive behind them. _That_ was her problem: outside in that courtyard, it had not been logic that drew Myrcella’s course of action and brought it to its completion, but rather a recklessness that boiled in her veins like hidden poison and which, on rare occasions, made her utterly thoughtless despite her best intentions. It was the same impulse that had once possessed her when she was barely more than a child – that time when she gave into it and jumped off a cliff and straight into the sea, just because she had wanted to know what it was to fly and someone told her she could not. Daring something insurmountable pushed by a desire without reason, by a gleeful disrespect of fear – _that_ sensation was the closest she had been to pure freedom. That same whimsical feeling did not seem to exist anywhere else but for in that moment between when her feet left the rock and hit the water; or when riding so fast that the world blurs, or when smashing all expectations and acting out the deepest of her heart’s desire.

It was strange sometimes, thinking to the contradictions that made her person: Myrcella found peace in self-possession. Controlled and calculating and fiercely her own - _that_ was who she was… but she also was addicted to the opposite, every once in a while. And the corner of her heart, which yarned for these unhinged things, frightened her deeply, because she knew where that this seed of recklessness came from: it was in her blood. She had recognised it in her mother, in what she knew of her father – her _true_ father. Of their offsprings, Tommen was the only one to be spared and for that as well, Myrcella loved him best.

She was better than her family at ruling her impulses… but better than brother (or mother or father), was ‘drier than the sea’: could not stand for much. But she supposed it came down to control. Will over desire, mind over matter - just like uncle Tyrion always said. Because Myrcella was not quick to forget the warning he had given her not so long ago: that both fearlessness and idiocy could lead to unforgivable mistakes with the same efficiency. That sometimes, they were one and the same.

ooo

Because of his damnable luck, he was with none other than the Sand Snakes when he was told of what the princess had done (though he had known it already of course – had seen it happen through wolfish eyes). And it was so that from a discussion about troupe movements and supply lines, Robb found himself in the middle of a second family dispute. But what drew his attention was the loud and cheerful laugh that the Obara Sand gave - which despite its harshness, was an improvement, considered how thunderous she had looked only a moment before, refusing to speak to her father and sister entirely even though they were sharing the same table.

Obara’s smile had been feral when Robb asked her of the reason for her mirth, her savage satisfaction managing to make her look a touch maniacal.

“A dagger through a hand is nothing. The last man that did Myrcella that kind of disrespect was not so lucky.” Obara’s smile was as cutting as usual. “A slice through his face on the other hand, is merely poignant; Myrcella’s sense of humour has always been a little twisted.”

“You always defend her! _Always_. It _sickens_ me.” The lady Tyene hissed from the side. Her temper had yet to cool off. “The pity she has instilled in your heart would be better used if you turned it to your family.”

The sisters had exchanged a hard stare and the eldest Sand Snake was as harsh in her appraisal of her sister as lady Tyene was of her.

“Any capacity for pity I may have been born with has withered away very fast Tyene; and even if I had any in me, I would never waste it upon desert vipers.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “You always were a sore loosed, sister. Learn to be wrong sometimes – it will do your pride some good.”

And that was the last straw that made Tyene leave the room. It was only then that Obara turned to Robb and explained. That was what he liked about Oberyn’s firstborn: she never needed to be asked.

“You see, Winter King, the last time the princess was provoked this shamelessly, she reacted in much the same way. The first time the offence was made, she obliged her manners by being high above it. The second time, she made her sentiments known in no uncertain way. And when the offence persisted in spite of it…” Obara’s smile hinted at blood, and Robb knew without being told what had happened the third time.

Obara’s mirth was nothing short of brutal.“Well, she shoved a dagger through the perpetrator’s eye socket. So you see, this Frey one is the lucky one.” she finished, delighted and merry.

 _How so?_ Robb might have asked, but didn’t. He knew what would be Obara Sand’s response: _‘He is still breathing’_ she would say. And perhaps she would be right.

“Oh no, Winter King, not because Aemon Frey is still alive. After all, Lord Xeon survived as well.” Elia Sand pointed out calmly. Her eyes were as intent as her sisters, though much more controlled. But it was only when he noticed that subtle pleading note in those dark depths, that Robb realized the girl’s true intent. It was not justifications she wanted to provide, but rather something much more important: she wanted to give him the means to understand _why_ , something that so far, none had bothered with. “Myrcella never meant to kill either of them. Death is pointless, uncle Doran always says and Myrcella has always listened to my uncle. That was why she took Lord Xeon’s eye. And she said to him, _‘The next time you believe anything you see is yours for the taking, I will take your other eye, so that you may never see anything else again.’_ ”

oOo

As she looked at herself in the mirror, Myrcella remembered that Arianne had always disliked the way green looked on her. ‘ _It makes you look like a predator,’_ she used to say, appreciative and critical at the same time. ‘ _… with those eyes so green they’re about to pop out of your skull.’_ And she would come close and whisper words, like secrets: ‘ _Don’t overplay your strengths, little cub -_ use _them. You should never let them see you coming..’_

But tonight was not one of those nights. Myrcella didn’t want to hide; she wanted people to look at her and _flinch_. No need to wear red for that either. Myrcella was not so blunt; she preferred being cunning.

In the end, it was gold and green and wildfire eyes that stared back at her form the mirror. Scars and pink lips and hard-set jaw. This was a hungrier creature, sharper and paler than her own self. Weariness gave way to more edges than Myrcella normally possessed, something that she’d never liked about herself. Tonight, it proved convenient.

She walked out of her room and through the keep’s corridors knowing that nothing she did tonight would go unseen: she had maimed one of the king’s soldiers – a close kinsman to the previous queen, no less. She had disappeared all day, taking permission from nobody and reappeared only when it suited her. Add to all that the fact that she was making no attempt to appear repentant, on the contrary she was blatantly showing off – well, it only added insult to injury didn’t it?

Were it so that she could do so much more than that…

That laughter still echoed in her steps. She had tried so hard not to think on it, but now that she was back with these people she could not stop. She had hoped that in time and with perseverance, she could gain their respect, but is she had to choose, she’d rather be fiercely hated and feared, than _laughed_ at.

How _dare_ they snicker behind her back! _By what right?_

Myrcella had rolled her eyes at her grandfather’s distaste for laughter once, but now… now that she knew how a mocking chuckle behind her back could feel like a roach was crawling along her nape... now she could understand how the urge to cut off someone's lips every time they sneered could be born. It was a feeling that grew slowly really, feeding on insecurities and that fierce sense of injustice, of entitlement. It fed on pride most of all, Myrcella knew that. And did not care. She would not be cutting anyone's lips off any time soon however. She’d have to be more subtle than that. She would do it the same way uncle Tyrion would: carefully, looking at the future and not missing the opportunity once it came. She might even have thought to act as her grandfather would. After all, there was nothing anyone could say against the man’s brutal effectiveness. His solutions always worked, even when the situation was not in his favour: Myrcella being in Riverrun, about to be married to a king when said king had been all but winning the war, was the ugly proof of it.

But Twin Lannister was too cold, too hard. Myrcella did not want that. She never had. And it frightened her sometimes, how easily inclined towards it she was. It seemed to be a trait common to the Lannisters of the Rock.

_Is cruelty in our blood? Is that the reason?_

Myrcella knew it wasn’t. Tommen was living proof of it. He was many things, both good and bad, but there was not a single ounce of cruelty in him, not even a tiny freckle. It had always comforted Myrcella to know that. It had always meant hope.

Which was why she was calm as she walked down with countless eyes upon herself. Why her unflinching eyes never faltered.

“You have some nerve daring to show your face here, after what you did.”

Myrcella looked to her left to see one of the nobles whom she did not remember the name of: a lean man of average height, with a dark beard and hair of the same brown shade, and small glinting eyes that looked at her in anger. He was a riverlander, one of the southern lords, but she could not recall his name. She could not tell if he was a Frey either. He might have been. It mattered not.

“I dare everything, my lord - it is my prerogative.” And she did sound so very sure of it. It was a joy to be her own mistress again. “But I do not however, understand your meaning.” Even though she understood it perfectly.

The man’s scowl deepened.

“Bastards don’t sit with kings.” He insisted then, though Myrcella noticed immediately that he dared not make a scene by raising his voice even a little. His pride must be pushing him, but he did not have enough balls to be forthright about it, did he… Her smile got sharper, and less of a smile. She felt her eyes narrow down their focus on this man, and he felt it too.

“Perhaps you’re not so well-versed in history: they do, and they have. But even if that were not the case, it makes no matter to me.”

 _I am not here as a bastard,_ she would have liked to say. _I am here as a princess._ Not that she expected him to see the difference.

The Lord opened his mouth to say something else, and the angry red of his face might have led him to abandon caution after all, but he never got his chance, because someone else intervened for him. This one she knew immediately: Eddard Karstark… and immediately she dreaded him.

“There, there, Walder, let’s not be rude. You are speaking to a lady - and a princess, my good man. Do remember your manners.”

Myrcella was not thrown at all: she knew insincerity when she saw it. It wasn’t as if Karstark was trying so hard to hide it either. He was amused about something but his grey eyes dead serious and they glinted with maliciousness when he looked at her.

“Did you enjoy your ride, your grace?” he asked then, almost in good nature.

“I did, my lord.” Neutrality was always best when one was walking blind.

“I assumed so. You were gone a long time, after all. You must not have heard the news, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed minutely.

“A raven came from King’s Landing, Princess.” Karstark bluntly said then, when the silence told him that she would not be asking. Myrcella felt the pit of her stomach drop. There was only one kind of news form King’s Landing that this man would take so great a pleasure in. Only one kind of news really, that mattered.

When she left, Stanis Baratheon had been expected to knock on the doors of the city within weeks.

It had been almost a month since she left…

Her heart stuttered in her chest. The borderline-compulsive need to _know,_ warred inside her heart with her self-worth and her self-preservation. _You can learn the details of it later. You_ can _; you always have._ But dignity once lost, was lost forever. And Myrcella could not afford to play herself into anyone’s hands so easily, not now, not ever.

Not even for this…

Myrcella told herself that… and felt her heart flail in protest.

“I’m sure the contents of message were riveting. However I must graciously ask you to make your point, if you have one. I am rather hungry, you see, and would like to dine sometime tonight.”

The stunned surprise that flickered in the large man’s eyes was only vaguely amusing, before it turned wry. As if he knew some secret she did not.

“Are you truly not going to ask?” he plainly said then, something between amazement and wry amusement in his features.

Myrcella abandoned the lightness of her voice, all pretence was left behind. “I am never one to _ask_ for anything, Lord Karstark. Speak if you will, or if not, get out of my way.”

Anger was brief on that rough face, before it glowed with grim satisfaction.

“Stanis’ fleet reached Blackwater something like a week ago, it seems. He laid siege to the city, stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your family… How can I put this…”

But there was no indecision in his tone. Only delight at the web he was spinning.

Myrcella felt her heartbeats grow wilder by the moment as the dread emptied her of feeling and weight entirely. She kept her breathing even, but it was only through the virtue of those sharp, well-cared nails biting deep in her palm that she did not reach out and sink those very same nails in that man’s eyes and gouge them out. The bitter taste of hatred filled her mouth… Myrcella had rarely felt herself hate so, but when she did, she hated murderously.

 _You will never forget this,_ she told herself _. You will never forget the look on his face now, how much he is enjoying this. Never._ Now or fifty years from now, she would make him pay. Myrcella promised herself that. That promise was her consolation and - for the _very first_ time - the _yearning_ for that title, _queen_ , kept her steady.

 _You_ will _be queen. He will be yours to torment then…_

“Your family is alive and well, princess.”

Myrcella could not startle at this point - she could barely even move. But she knew _his_ voice.

“Your mother and brother were unharmed, sealed within Meagor’s Holdfast, I am told.” The king continued, this time speaking directly to her, though it took Myrcella some moments and a good deal of persuasion to make herself look at him. Her scattered thoughts submitted to quietness once she could his ice-blue eyes. She needed to hear this. This first. _All_ else, later.

“Your uncles both were out in defences of the city along with your grandfather.” The king added.

Myrcella frowned through her confusion.

“Both?” _Both_ her uncles? What…

The king smiled, amused. “Indeed, both. The Imp is said to have been at the forefront of the defences.”

_How I hate it when they call him that!_

But instead of voicing this, Myrcella looked away. The king probably thought she was overwhelmed; Myrcella did not know how much her face had showed. She hoped it was little to nothing. She hoped they thought her as lifeless as rock. _They will never taste my fear. Never._ Even though she had been so close to screaming just a moment ago. Even now she still felt something like six inches behind herself even now.

“Stanis’ fleet burned in the bay and when the soldiers landed, your grandfather and your uncle along with the Tyrell forces won the battle.”

“How did it burn?” how could it?

“Wildfire.” Was all the king said. Myrcella saw no deception in his eyes.

_Wildfire…_

“The Imp played his little trick.” Lord Karstark said scornfully. “Thousands burned alive.”

Myrcella knew disdain when she saw it and she saw it now in lord Karstark’s eyes clear as day. She knew what she could say to cut, of course. Knew how to slap that same distain in his own face… but chose silence. She was so tired, of words too among other things. She felt so cold all of a sudden, where before the thin sheen of nervous sweat had coated her. It was as if her blood were retreating from every surface of her skin…

This had been, Myrcella admitted numbly, a very long day.

“A shame, I say.” Lord Karstark continued. “I would have had a merry day knowing that Stanis went and took the Iron Throne. And what a sight his victory would have made: golden heads mounded on sharp spikes.”

Her eyes landed on him sharply and Myrcella spared the man no measure of her disgust, as neither did he spar her any of his distain.

“If you had the chance to stop and think, Karstark, you’d realize that Stannis taking the Red Keep is not such a good thing for the North as you might imagine it being for yourself.” The king said, and though there was nothing but cool detachment to what he said, there was such grimness to his tone that it made his words sound more like a warning than a simple statement.

“I do not see your meaning, your grace.” Karstark countered through gritted teeth… and Myrcella felt she was suddenly in the middle of an old argument. The twinge of interest made itself known in her.

“And that is why I have always known you to be a blind bloody fool!”

The thundering voice made Myrcella look to her left immediately and it was only great fortitude that kept her from stepping back from the advancing man that looked half a giant. That and the words that Lord Umber had spoken with a laugh twirling around them. Lord Umber had never looked to be a quiet man and he was so big in body that his booming voice made sense, it matched him. Yet they way he looked at her, the laughter in his eyes that did not turn to sternness once he saw her, made Myrcella feel she should not so soon dread him just because of his size.

“You think Stanis Baratheon would ever stop at just the Red Keep? How long before he turned north and we’d have to go to war again, eh? Think about that for a tick: our blood-won peace _gone,_ before a youngster like yourself can fart twice.” His voice boomed and it gained quite the attention. “And with winter at our door and a man like bloody Stanis controlling every road from Dorne to the Neck, before victory we would sooner see starvation… or worse.”

The murmur of approval was faint and almost unwilling, but it pierced through Myrcella’s fogged up awareness for a short moment; enough for her to realize that where exactly she was standing… and with whom. Being beside the king and knowing the mind of his bannermen was what she had wanted all along, had it not been so? Now that she had it, she cared so little for it.

_How quaint that the gods give us what he wished for in exactly the most unbearable form. …Ironic little fuckers._

Because though it had been her wish, all Myrcella could think on now was her proud mother, her uncles, even Joffrey, though he was an evil little monster most often than not. She was _consumed_ with worry for Tommen, because nobody ever thought of mentioning him.

 _But if he were… if he were…_ they would mention him then, wouldn’t they?

“Enough of this.” The King said suddenly. “Princess, would you do me the honour?” and he offered his arm, which she took as if in a dream.

She thought of her mother, sealed inside the Keep, alone and in a restless fury as the battle raged outside. She thought of both her brothers by her mother’s side, as Cersei waited to know if she would live or die. The sudden chill that gripped her heart was that of certainty, because Myrcella knew what a woman like her mother would think and _do_ if she was afraid she might stand to lose everything she held dear. And fear bit her heart when Myrcella realized that yes, she too would take a blade to her own self rather than fall to the mercy of an enemy that would make a spectacle of her death. Myrcella did not possess the noble spirit of Elia Martell, and neither did her mother – may the gods damn them both. They were nothing but themselves, _too much_ of themselves indeed.

_Tommen, Tommen…_

Her brother’s face swam before her and she ached with a sorrow so deep it was hidden from tears[[3]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftn3), as she imagined him frightened, listening to the horror outside his rooms. Then her mind, cruel even to her own self, conjured the image of a shiny dagger or something smoother, painless as sweet poison, in Cersei Lannister’s hand as desperation seized that dark heart… and it was then Myrcella tasted true fear: inconsolable and all consuming.

“Princess…” the voice came form so far, though he was so close. His doublet was smooth underneath her fingers, warm black wool. “Do you need to sit down, my lady? You look pale.”

There was a slight tremor to her limbs and she was breathing without pattern. Distantly, Myrcella was aware of all this.

“I am well.” She heard herself say.

 _You are not_ , his silence responded.

“Would you like a walk about the gardens for a few moments?”

_I am so tired…_

But she prized the chance to for privacy more than she did her own exhaustion. So she said yes, and that is how they found themselves walking about the gardens as the King told her that her mother was seemingly unharmed, how her uncle Tyrion had devised a clever plan for taking away the ships from Stanis Baratheon and dealing a fatal and irreparable blow to him that way, and how Jamie Lannister had sustained several injuries but none were life-threatening. _Your brother is said to be unharmed as well_ he said and when there was silence after that Myrcella realized that no, of course he did not mean Tommen; he meant Joffrey. Joffrey was ‘her brother’ to him, when Myrcella had not referred to him as such in a while. The only one she thought of as ‘my brother’ was Tommen. Joffrey was a king. He could not have sisters.

She finally found her voice.

“You said, your grace, that it was my uncle who wrote the missive.”

The king nodded. Myrcella knew she was not imagining the worry in his eyes but she had no though for him at the moment.

“Are you sure he did not mention Tommen? He _must_ have said something of him.” Myrcella was sure of it. None like uncle Tyrion seemed to understand just how much Myrcella loved her little brother.

“He wrote that your family and all whom you love are safe and sound, princess.” Was all he could say, but at those words Myrcella took a full breath and felt it finally reach her lungs.

_‘…all whom you love’_

Those were so few, back in King’s Landing. But if it had to exist, love was always mean to be a secret – uncle Tyrion understood that better than most. He had known that her letter would reach foreign eyes before it ever made it to her hand: he had not wanted to give away her weakness so easily.

It was only when her thoughts quieted that Myrcella realize that every noise and thought she’d had, had been amplified into a scream in her head, pushing her to distraction. Time had slowed as she dwelled inside her head, and now it came back with a vengeance… and it was only then really that Myrcella could find a thought or two to spare for the man by her side. She thanked him for his words of comfort; didn’t make mention of the raven that she should have gotten, of the privacy that had been defied – Myrcella saw this leniency as a great indulgence on her part, to repay the king for the kindness he did her back there, in front of Eddard Karstark and his slow torment.

 _My debt is paid,_ she told herself.

It must not have been so easy for him, telling her those things. She mentioned as much, but the king denied it. His eyes were so intent on her, she thought she might catch him trying to break her open and poke the insides for better understanding.

“They are your family.” He stated, as if it was a law of nature. “You have the right to know their fates.”

Myrcella sighed and opened her mouth to answer, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“I do enjoy our conversations princess, but though I would like speaking to you of whatever you wish, I’m afraid we are being waited on. Would you like to join me in my solar after dinner?”

Would she? She was already tiered enough to kneel over from it. But she did not believe in delaying the inevitable. This had to happen it might as well be tonight.

“Of course, your grace.”

oOo

The knock was decided, but not loud enough to grate. It sounded twice and then no more until he invited her to enter. He saw her stop with a hand on the handle, quick eyes taking in everything and then pausing, startled out of their weariness.

“I can come back later, your grace.” She said immediately.

Robb smiled and lifted his daughter from the table where she had been wrecking havoc, and into his arms.

“I’m sure you can princess.” even though she looked tired enough to fall over. “But you don’t have to. Come in.”

Her eyes fixed on Rose and then looked away as if she did not mean to be caught staring. If it were up to those that would council him, Myrcella Baratheon would never lay eyes on his daughter ever, but that was not how Robb intended for things to be. What he had seen of the princess, known of her, had helped him decide what he wanted to do with the complication that this Myrcella Baratheon was. He had made his choice this morning, when he was convinced that he had seen at least the beginning of all of her, and it was a choice that he would not regret.

“Please, sit. You have not yet met my daughter, have you?”

The princess shook her head. No she had not of course. His mother turned green whenever he suggested it. Sansa would frown as if undecided and give their mother contemplating looks and Arya had planted herself in Rose’s room, sleeping there beside the little girl, a living shield.

Robb was tired of them all.

Rose on the other hand, had no such qualms. She regarded the princess with the caution of her calm nature, but with a definite curious glint to her eyes – one that admittedly was reserved for everything and everyone new. The princess gave a meagre smile and a small hello, to which his two and a half year old daughter remained unmoved.

“She is slow to accustom herself to strangers.” Robb explained with an amused look. “Give her a few hours though and she’d be following you around like a pup.”

The princess did not react at his words at first but for a small nod, and then she took a deep breath (as she did when she was about to do something entirely daring on her part) and then stood, walking the few steps separating them and then– to his utter amazement – took a knee at the foot of Robb’s chair, bringing herself eye to eye with his daughter.

“Hello, little princess.” She said then, her smile not dim anymore but full and bright, erasing the tiredness off her face and softening all the edges that it brought to light. To that, his daughter responded by grabbing a fistful of those gold hair and pulling.

Robb immediately reached out to catch that tiny fist, but he was stopped by the princess’ low chuckle.

“Tommen used to do that as well.” The princess said with a smile so soft it sweetened her face into affection – affection for her brother. She was still looking at Rose, letting his daughter fill the tiny hands with golden curls as her fascination for them grew. “I used to let him brush my hair and braid it in silly twists. My septa would always have such fits over it…”

And just then Rose tried to stuff a fistful of those heavy waves in her tiny mouth with a long ‘aww’ sound that drew an amused look from the princess. She caught Rose’s little hand in her own long fingers and softly told her ‘no, not in your mouth’. An advice that Robb knew Rose would blithely disregard only a few moments later as she always did.

“It seems to be the way of little brothers…” Robb heard himself say, looking at his daughter and the princess both. There was a tremble to the princess’ limbs; she swallowed more often than normal. He could see the signs of nerves on her, though the look on her face told him nothing

The princess did not say much else for long moments, during which Rose slid down from Robb’s lap; he watched his daughter being drawn to the multiple skirts of the princess’ dress and how the princess got herself more comfortable there on the thick rug and let his daughter crawl and play with all the frills and laces and heavy velvets, Rose's game getting more and more open and loud as time passed and she accustomed herself to the princess’ company. It was strange how Rose’s presence, though she was still small enough not to understand what happened around her, stilled the tension between himself and the princess. His little girl acted as a conduct, as a distraction perhaps. It was hard to remember why the air was so tense with things unsaid, when Rose decided it was a good idea to crawl under the princess’ skirts. The action provoked a laugh from the princess, who so far had been silent.

He did however remember why he’d wanted to see her, and he did not wish to delay any longer.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you princess before you hear it from someone else in a more unpleasant fashion: we will be moving out of Riverrun soon. You and my daughter will take the northern road through the marshes of the cragonmen, along with a good number of my men, and wait at Greywater Watch.”

He knew better than to think she would not ask for more than that. Her immediate frown told him she was already dissecting his words.

“Myself and your daughter… Shall we be travelling apart from the rest of your family?” She tried to hide her suspicion, but didn’t fully succeed.

“My mother and sisters have chosen not to go. I’d rather not take that chance with neither you nor my daughter however.”

Her eyes flared and the unspoken words she trapped behind her thinning lips simmered. Robb knew what she was thinking in that moment. She knew what she was in this war, in this _peace_ of theirs, but still she did not appreciate being robbed of the freedom to choose. Sansa had told him as much, but perhaps Robb really had wanted to see for himself what the princess’ reaction would be.

“And what is it that I and your two year old daughter shall have to wait for in Greywater Watch?” she asked then, icily composed. It gave away her indignation immediately.

“You will have to wait out a battle, princess. The army will be marching on the last of the ironborn.”

Realization dawned on her as quickly as a blink and for a moment she did not breathe.

“To take back Moat Cailin.” She whispered, eyes turning inwards, before focusing on him sharply as if looking for confirmation. There were questions in her eyes, she was brimming with them.

“I have always heard it said that Moat Cailin is impossible to take from the south. That this is so true that no southern army has ever set foot past the Neck. How do you plan to take it?”

Robb’s smile was sly. “Very carefully.” He said simply, not answering at all.

Something flickered in her eyes. Her next observation surprised him.

“You will not grant them any surrender, will you?” the way she spoke it surprised him as well: without a single doubt, without battling a single eyelash.

Humour left his eyes. “No, I won’t.”

The princess took only one short moment to ponder – the space of one blink. Then she nodded and turned her attention to Rose once more, who seemed intent now the silver rings on the princess’ fingers – though the Myrcella did not allow his daughter to take them in her own hands because _‘oh no, you could choke on one of those.’_ She did not ask him why he should choose not to show the smallest mercy– and Robb knew it was not because she did not have it in her to ask him those kinds of questions. The truth was that she simply did not need to, did she? She was not bound by the same rules he had been raised with. Myrcella Baratheon had grown hearing ‘The rains of Castamere’ in her halls. She could understand the convenience of annihilation better perhaps, than any of his generals… and apparently had no qualms with it.

She truly was a hard soul, wasn’t she?

(But Robb knew there was compassion in her. He had seen it. It might have bothered him that she could be such different things at once, but that didn’t matter anymore. He’d made his choice.)

It was not the northern way, Robb knew, to grant no quarter like this, but it was not to northerners that Robb wished to make himself heard. This language was meant for the Ironborn and it was one they would understand to their core. He had let his men draw the iron islanders into one place – make Moat Cailin their stronghold on purpose. Now that the board was set and the pieces were moving however, Robb would feed is army a bellyful of crackens. They had their chance for turning back and they missed it. And if there was one thing Robb had learned from warring against Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton, it was methodical ruthlessness. Whatever had to happen to end this war would happen and that was the end of it. The krakens that had dared claim the north for their own would die. Every last one of them.

“For when should I make myself ready, your grace?”

Robb blinked at her for a moment before catching himself. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts though, that when the princess spoke to him, it caught him unaware…

“You will be told some hours before, worry not.”

The frown pulled her eyebrows together again. “How shall I be travelling?”

Was she worried about her safety, he wondered? A quick look at her scarred cheek reminded him that this was a woman who would probably not be so quick to trust her safety to others, seeing how grossly they had failed her in the past. He told himself to remember that.

“Through the safest road.” Robb said plainly, and saw the flicker in her face at having been caught in her intent. “The cragonmen will guide you and Rose through the hidden paths of the marshes. None but them can survive those roads. A few thousand of my men will also go with you, so rest assured princess, you will be as safe as I can keep you.”

“Indeed.” She said softly, looking away. Whether her incredulity was real of his imagination Robb could not tell, but he did know an unimpressed face when he saw it.

“You don’t trust me to keep you safe… and I can understand why that is. But you should trust me when I say that my daughter’s safety is paramount to me and I would never take the slightest chance with her - and she will be travelling with _you_. Is that not enough for you?”

Her lips pursed for a moment but then she looked away from him again. She nodded, without making eye contact.

“And where will this ‘some thousand men’ that will be travelling with us go? Stay with us at Greywater Watch?” she enquired then, though it was obvious to her that she did not believe so.

Robb had a moment, a single one, to wonder at his wisdom of sharing such information with a person who needed so little guidance to draw herself to the right conclusion… that moment was quick to pass. His mother had been adamant about not telling her anything of his plans and having her moved with the rest of his army as he saw fit. Robb had flat out refused. He would not treat her as if she was his to move; she was, unfortunately for her, but Robb had an inkling he would never get anywhere with this princess if he made her feel so powerless. He knew that the most dangerous animal was the cornered one and Robb was not so anxious to test Myrcella Baratheon in that so needlessly.

Besides, what could possibly be the harm of showing her a little trust – of having her see that he was _choosing_ to trust her?

“Some will. The rest will travel further up the marshes and infiltrate Moat Cailin from the north, where its defences are low. We will engage them from one side…”

“And sneak up to them from the other.” She finished, certain. Robb limited himself to a small nod.

She took a moment to wonder – he watched her as she did, without realizing that he was curving forward and they were so very close; she was practically sitting at his feet and Rose had drawn herself to her lap, where the main focus of attention had become the princess’ bodice and its delicate ornaments.

“I have heard it said that you always join the battles.” The princess said without looking away from Rose. “Will you be fighting this time as well?”

“It would not be very fair to ask my men to fight and die if I am not willing to do it myself.”

Her silence stretched a bit and, utterly out of nowhere, Robb was reminded of how anxiousness used to submerge Roslyn whenever he left for the field, how wide and pleading her eyes used to become, soft as velvet as she silently implored him not to go… and how dearly he had cherished that tenderness.

There had been a flicker in him that had expected some shade of that from this princess when she started on this particular line of discourse. It was a twinge like muscle memory provoked by the shade of an idea he might have held once, of how men and women were among themselves. It was a thought that Robb was internally laughing at even before he was done conjuring it. He should have known better than to even think it: she was not of that kind. The even tone of her question should have told him as much if nothing else had. He could not even imagine what she would sound like as she plead… or that she could ever plead for anything.

He could imagine a way or two to _make_ her, though. To hear how the word ‘please’ tasted on her lips.

But that would be a different way of pleading… one he should not be thinking of in the middle of the night in a room alone with her; especially because, seeing how tense the line of her shoulders still was, his thoughts were not bound to take him anywhere but to disappointment.

“I do hope you don’t intend on dying.” the princess deadpanned then, her dry tone making him smile.

“No man ever does.”

She shrugged. “I suppose you wouldn’t. There is so much you have to live for after all.”

Robb frowned. Her tone was not flat exactly – contemplative would be a better word for it and he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown.

“Do try not to get killed regardless, your grace.” The princess then added, and this time she did look at him, and there at the corner of her lips there was a small curve twisting them upwards in the smallest smile. In that moment she seemed not so apprehensive at all. She seemed at her ease.

Robb rolled his eyes and fell back in his seat.

“You have a twisted sense of humour, princess.”

Her laughter rang with the clarity of bells; Rose squealed and clapped her tiny hands at it.

oOo

It was his mother that came to collect Rose for bed… and it was the princess who picked his daughter up and passed her to the waiting arms of Caitlyn Tully Stark. Robb did not miss his mother’s sharpening stare, that twitch on the side of her jaw and her thinning lips. He decided that he did not care of it either way. He had made himself very plain earlier that day, (he had never thought he should have to give the same warning to his own mother that he had to his insubordinate soldiers) for the second time: There would be no more fucking about on any account where Myrcella Baratheon was concerned. The time to offer opinions was over.

The princess was not of the same uncaring mind though. Whatever levity Robb had managed to infuse her with, disappeared, and the moment she turned to him after his mother had left, Robb knew she would take her leave. She did not even bother to sit down again…

"Your grace…" the princess begun one they were alone, but found herself soon interrupted.

He was so tired of hearing about his _grace_ , of all things!

"Don't you know my name, princess?"

The transparent surprise in her eyes when she tuned to him was worthy of a smile.

"I…Of course I do." she said, her tone as careful as her tiny frown. Her confusion was never pure – it always blended with suspicion.

"Then perhaps you should start thinking of using it." Robb said lightly. Her mouth slackened a bit, a flair of irritation barely concealed in her eyes. She did not like being teased, or at least not when she did not know the rules of the game, and it seemed to him that she did not. Looking at her Robb even doubted that she understood his intent.

The iron look she had only moments before received from his mother might have something to do with her sudden coldness.

"That would be inappropriate of me.” she said then, as if it was obvious.

Robb smiled thinly.

"Till only this morning, I would have believed you actually cared about such a thing as propriety, but now… I don't really think you do. After all, you question my judgement freely enough."

She bristled at that. Her eyes hardened and her shoulders tensed even further. He had to wonder if she was even breathing at this point.

"I am bound to speak truthfully to him who would be my husband and my king, am I not?" her eyes pinned him. "Had you not wished for my honest opinion, you should not have asked me for it. If I have been insolent, then that is some excuse, but I do not believe I have given you case to judge me so."

Robb let the silence linger for a moment; the irony of this whole thing tinkled him lightly. She _was_ insolent. Ever politely so, but she was insolent about everything that she did not like or judged inferior. Insolence implied judgement, disregard and a certain amount of recklessness. It implied pride. She was _all_ of that. The only difference between her and someone else however, was that she concealed it all underneath manners so impeccable, that her impudence rarely showed for what it truly was.

But she was not insolent now: she was defensive.

Robb took a step forward, abandoning the tease and bleeding sincerity in every word.

"Princess… my lady, you mistake me: I am not making a mockery of your honesty, I promise you. I simply meant to convey that I feel we are both, at this point, beyond the formality of our titles." He did not say that it had come to a point that it grated at him to be addressed as ‘your grace’ by someone he was trying so hard to get close to. It was as if every time she uttered that title she forced distance between them. It had simply lost the rightness of circumstance, in Robb’s opinion.

She regarded him with mistrust, at first. But then she gave in with a sigh.

“I suppose you are right. No, I _know_ you are. I thought…" but she stopped herself and shook her head. "It doesn’t matter what it thought. This… It should be easier than this, should it not?"

“I doubt it.” Robb said and when he found that he had her curiosity, he added to it. “Once you start thinking anything as easy, it only means you’ve forgotten what it costs.”

The princess smiled and gave him an absent-minded nod.

"I think you will have to start… I find it too odd." she finally said, though there was the note of a smile in her bright eyes.

Robb raise one eyebrow at her. "You find it easy to give me an order, but you won't say my name. That _is_ odd, Myrcella."

Her name rolled off his lips easily: he had been practising saying it in his head for a while now. Her reaction though was interesting: she blinked, surprised. She knew and yet it seemed she had hardly been prepared to hear her own name through his lips. And thought they had almost rehearsed the moment, her name on his tongue, when she was standing right there, felt strange for him too.

Why though?

And why not? When it implied such immediate familiarity. One they did not have, not truly. And yet they kept guiding themselves towards it, stubbornly persisting in spite of any and all around them.

 _You’re being a fool Robb._ And it’s his mother’s voice he hears. And perhaps she is right, but Robb cannot do anything different. He _cannot_.

“Perhaps now that we have gotten over the formalities, I might ask you something that has been troubling me.”

Robb nodded, even though she had not exactly asked him a question.

“Why haven’t you yet spoken to me of what happened this morning with Aemon Frey? Or what you heard in this same room, from Tyene, from Oberyn.” She never had had reservations about holding his gaze, even when she would rather look away. This was not one of those times. “Don't you have anything you wish to ask me? Or have you gathered enough by asking others?”

Robb did not imagine the disparaging tone to her voice then, even though she was so very careful of hiding it.

“Oberyn has explained to me the circumstances of your attempted murder, and what followed.” Robb said then, and saw the surprise flicker in her eyes at his chosen words. He had in fact chosen them deliberately: it _had_ been an tempted murder. And he was full of things he wanted to know. But not like this. “It is enough that you should be made to give me your future. Your past is your own Myrcella. I should like to know of it, but only when you wish to tell me, on your own terms.”

A small smile curved her lips, understanding sinking in her eyes, softening them. She regarded him carefully.

“I have come to expect demands from strangers. It is... unbalancing for me to find such understanding. Thank you.” Looking at her unflinching eyes was starting to become annoying. He did not want to blink first, but she seemed never to need to do it at all. “And what of Aemon Frey. You mean to tell me that none have come to you demanding my punishment for maiming your man?”

Robb bristled. “They have come, and they have been denied under no uncertain terms. There is no rightful cause for your punishment.”

Her brow rising at him was all the reaction she gave, but it spoke to him as eloquently as if she had outright laughter her disbelief in his face.

“Spoken like a true King.”

Robb frowned at her. It felt as if she was mocking him even though there was nothing but acknowledgement on her face. He kept his lips locked though.

“You do not wish to speak of this at all.” She noticed then, angling her head a bit to her left like a curious animal. “Why is that?”

Robb knew precisely why. He was not about to tell her though. “Why is that you _do_?” he threw back at her.

She did not miss a second. “Because I saw the distaste and disapproval in you the moment I asked. I wish to know why.”

Robb barely restrained himself from groaning.

“I do not want to start a debate that will only serve to make us both angry at one another.” he told her frankly, a little taken aback by the careful attention she was paying him.

Her eyes narrowing let Robb know she did not agree with him even in that. “Should we speak of the weather then? Of my dress or the lovely dinner? I do not care about any of those things.”

 _Neither do I..._ But likewise, he did not see a point to it other than to take a step back in all the efforts they had made to find some sort of calm together. They did not know each other well enough not too misunderstand each other.

“Why should we knowingly start an argument? We will _not_ agree.”

“Agreeing is not the point.” and she spoke the words with such strength that Robb was forced to stop and consider them. “ _Disagreeing_ is. I want to speak of this because I want to know your mind and understand your reasons… and because I want you to know mine. That is as good a reason to argue as any.”

Robb's eyebrows made a jump for his hairline. Well, it _was_ a good reason, a very good reason really, when most if not all arguments did not even have a plausible one. …Yet he did not seem to know where to start, so he started by rubbing his temple, where a small tick was alerting him to an oncoming headache.

“What exactly would you want me to say, Myrcella?”

The question seemed to scratch at her. She did not like being patronized.

“I would have you tell me what you think.”

What he thought… that was an interesting question. This time he did look up into her face, catching the slight tension that was already rising her. That was when he finally understood: she did not coil that way when she was afraid of even when she was angry. This was her preparing for a blow, whatever it may be. She was knowingly getting this out of him even though she probably knew that she would not like what was coming. He could not see the sense in that? Why as she trying to unbalance their frail truce?

“Do you even care what I think? Truthfully, Myrcella.” Robb asked her, softening his voice. He did not want her to take it as a challenge.

Her lips thinned but she did not falter. “I do.”

Robb found it hard to believe. He had detected no guilt in her, no signs of repentance. On the contrary, tonight her presence had been flaring and undeniable, a bright ‘fuck off’ to anyone who presumed she would bow her head and ask penance.

_Fine then, Lannister. Have it your way._

She wanted him to stop treating her like a fine piece of glass did she not? Very well.

“I think what you did was reckless and impulsive, therefore ill-advised. As a punishment, it was disproportionate with the offence and more importantly, it looked as if it was vengeance and not justice.” Robb spoke flatly. She was already getting his thoughts; no reason to grace her with his feelings as well.

“You never said it was wrong.” Myrcella murmured after a small pause. It was no question either.

“…No I did not. Aemon Frey was in the wrong and for that he would have been punished accordingly. I had given him the benefit of the doubt only once.”

Her brow rose. “Oh? So tell me, had I not done anything and simply ran with my tail between my legs, he would have been dealt with at your order?”

“He threatened your life, disrespected your position and therefore mine. It would have cost him the same as if he had insulted me.”

Now her expression was more than just doubtful. Both her brows rose in a sort of wry understanding. “And what was to be his punishment in this case?”

Robb sighed. He had hoped the Frey would not be so foolish as to actually repeat the same blunder twice. “I had promised him that Greywind would unburden him of a body part of choice.”

The princess regarded him carefully.

“Were you prepared to carry out your promise?”

“To the very end of it.” Robb had not even needed to think on that.

Her smile was cutting. “Then I hope you realize how much trouble I spared you by acting the way I did. I’m sure a wayward princess is less of a headache, politically speaking, than the Lord of the Crossing being angry at you for personally maiming his brother in my name.”

Robb stiffened and she saw the irritation on his face no doubt… because he could not have said it better himself if he’d tried.

“I was counting on Aemon not being so stupid as to go against my express command. I suppose I should not have held out such foolish hope when he has so often proved himself a complete arse.” Robb admitted with a sigh as he leaned back on his seat, feeling tired.

The princess seemed to be surprised by his easy admission but at the sight of him like that she seemed to allow herself to untangle a bit. A little of the tension ran out of her.

“So, allow me to understand you correctly: you had threatened the man with amputation, and yet somehow my stabbing him a little and cutting his face was worse than that. Somehow what I did was disproportionate and vengful, instead of an earned punishment – as it would have been, had _you_ been the one to carry it out instead of myself?”

Robb knew it would come to this.

“It was, yes.”

She was not long to catching on. “Because of who I am, am I right?” Robb watched the anger she had been keeping down take life in her eyes. “Because I am a Lannister and a woman, my demanding the respect and manners I am owed, is too much to ask?”

His frown clouded his face, diving way to his displeasure.

“It is not because of whose blood you have in your veins, and even less because you’re a _woman_.” He insisted, a little harshly perhaps because in truth, those reasons were very much part of why what she’d done had been seen as so outrageous. “You had no _right_ to punish him. _I_ am the only one that gives legitimacy to punishments around here. _My_ word is law, not yours. I had promised him severe treribution if he went against my command; I would be keeping my word when I punished him. Any matter _you_ take in your own hands stands outside of the law which is why the penalty you inflicted was not yours to give!”

The implications of those words sank in. Robb had no doubt that the princess knew what he meant. He did not know however where that left her.

“I have been taking care of myself since I was eight years old, Winter King.” Myrcella Baratheon told him with a deceptively calm voice. He was not fooled: her eyes were seething at him. “I started saving my own self when I was thirteen. One does not learn to stay alive by depending on the fairness of strangers. Besides, Aemon Frey did not break your law when he insulted me, nor did I act upon such a reason I taught him of better manners. This is a matter between two adult people; or rather, one adult woman and a man who should start acting like one.”

“Then that means you assaulted one of my men and created disorder and they are right claiming is should punish you for it accordingly.” Robb challenged.

“They are not. My actions are well within my bounds as a Princess of the Iron Throne, as your intended and future queen.” And as she spoke she _burned_. “And make no mistake, Winter King, it was _you_ who he chose to insult first and foremost by interfering with me. It was _your_ command he knowingly violated, not mine.” Her eyes narrowed with knowledge; she seemed to snatch the thought right out of his head. “And I think you already know that.”

Her words went into his head like a spear, so close they were to the actual truth and Robb found himself looking at Myrcella Baratheon and feeling as if he had not seen her at all – again.

How many time could one person surprise you?

“Be that as it may, this does not put your actions any more in the right than they were.”

She glared at him. It did not feel nice, it felt like being on the edge of a very deep place. Her stare was arresting when she was angry: it amplified her emotions, made them crushing.

“I did nothing wrong. I did nothing that was not within my rights, nor anything that would not have been _expected_ of me if I had been a man defending his own honour. _I did nothing wrong_!”

Finally Robb snapped. “You were _cruel!_ Even if we hold that you are the representative of the Iron Throne until you become my wife, that does not ebb your actions of their brutality.” He did not mean to raise his voice at all, not even that little bit, but his temper got the better of him and her stubbornness was starting to grate. “The moment you chose to mark his face forever was the moment you overstepped your right and soiled that honour you were trying to avenge!”

The silence between them was charged with both their nerves and tension so tick they could have cut it open with a dagger. The very air felt heavy with it. Robb watched her as she focused all her concentration on him and the feeling he had was unnerving. Those eyes that narrowed on his face made him feel as if he were standing in front of a creature that would bite him if he so much as moved.

“Tell me, what did _you_ do with those that betrayed you? With those that break your commands and those that dare defy you?” The princess asked, her voice so utterly calm that it immediately made him suspicions, so juxtaposed it was with the fierceness in her eyes. “How do _you_ repay them, Winter King: A scolding? A fine? A stern warning?[ [4]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftn4)”

“I repaired them with steel.” Robb snapped, feeling the prickle of anger at her mockery.

The answer seemed to satisfy her; she repaid him with a grim look.

“You do what you must to get what you need. And _so did I_.” she asserted, chin pointed up in sheer defiance. “Call me cruel and brutal if you will, but make no mistake, the only _real_ difference between us is a name.”

Robb gritted his teeth together. He could not believe how easily she twisted things around, how she could realign concepts he knew to be wrong in such a way that they made perfect sense. She equated circumstances that were not the same at all and made it sound natural. It was _not!_

Had Robb been somewhat calmer in that moment, a little more his collected self, he would have noticed something very odd about himself. He would have noticed how uncharacteristic his reaction to her was. He knew her so little, yet so easily she seemed to get under his skin: she had but to try.

Had he noticed it, he would not have liked it one bit.

To her statement though, he said nothing, though his head was filled with their differences even as Myrcella proclaimed them so alike. His thoughts must have been loud in his eyes though, for she sensed them. That twist at the corner of her lips was as unnerving as ever.

“I know what you’re thinking now.” She challenged.

Robb’s eyebrow twitched. “Do you?” and his irony was not even subtle. “Well, there isn’t much you can’t do, is there.”

Her narrowed eyes answered him, and Robb was reminded of the shadowcats beyond the wall and their feline predatory gaze. She liked to mock him just fine but she did not allow for her own game being turned against her , did she?

“Experience has been my mistress.” The princess said tightly. “She is not known for her mercy.”

Horseshit, Robb thought. She knew nothing about him; all she had was presumption. “And how much experience have you had with _me_ , princess?”

They both knew the answer to that, but she was not thrown by the obviousness of it, to Robb’s chagrin.

“Little, but enough to know you’re holding back your judgement, your grace. I have tried to be my better self with you, so you might look at me and see _me_ …” she said it as if the idea had been a ridiculous one. As if it had already failed. That smirk hid her feelings well, but the disappointment brimmed in her eyes. “I wonder though, who it is that you see now.”

Even though hers did not sound like a question at all. As if she did not have to wonder and already knew. Robb was taken aback by that confession though; her so plainly stating how she had been trying to reach him. He had always felt it of curse – it had surprised him to say the least. But she had never said it so plainly before.

Who did he see?

 _I see both my sisters in you,_ he wanted to say; the same fight and spirit lived in Arya and Sansa in different ways. There were echoes of her parents in her: in her pride, in her sense of entitlement and the ease with which she filled her role as royalty… In her absolute refusal to bow her neck for anyone, not even for him – though, whether she was so uncompromising of her dignity because of her parentage, or because the desert vipers she held so close to her breast had taught her so, Robb could not know. He knew however other things, secret things; things like how she stunk of fear sometimes, and how bravely she pushed through it.

He felt the echoes of many people in her. And yet they were so distant, he could stop to think on them only once she was out of his sight. Because when she was there in front of him, in front of anyone, it was impossible to be filled with anyone’s presence but hers.

He could tell her all that. He could. But he doubted she would believe a word of it.

The silence lasted so long between them that even the echoes of their arguments were swallowed by it. Both their tempers came to cool and once they did they realized that the point was moot; they had known they would not agree. Agreeing with each other was not the point, she had said so herself.

They seemed to realize this at the same time and two sets of eyes rose and met, green and sky-blue, at the same moment.

“I did not mean to make you angry.” Myrcella said slowly. “Perhaps starting this when we were both so tired was not my best idea.”

“Are you sorry that you did?” Robb asked, curious.

Her eyes snapped to him immediately and even before she spoke he had his answer.

“No. I don’t expect us to agree on everything. That does not mean we should not speak of things with one another, does it?”

Robb could not help a smile. “No. No it does not.” and then after a brief consideration, he added to it, more softly. “What do you say to a compromise?”

The small inclining of her head was her interest.

“I shall admit the right of something: that Aemon Frey got what was his due.” Robb said slowly. “Your brand of lesson was perhaps different in its connotations from the one I would have given him… but it was fully deserved none the less.”

Those words made her look away. It was a while before she spoke again and she did so looking to the fire and not his eyes.

“A compromise… Then is suppose I shall have to admit that while I knew he deserved it, that that had no bearing whatsoever over why I did it.”

And then, once it was clear that Robb would not be the one to break the silence, she looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Are you not going to speak to me about the difference between justice and vengeance?” she asked him then.

Robb almost smiled. “And what exactly would be the point of telling you something which you already know? …I would however like to know why.”

Her surprise was starting to taste sweet. She always looked so sure in her opinions, so unassailable – becoming unpredictable to her was starting to seem like a game. He would like it much better however, when she seized to be surprised.

“I do already know the difference, of course… I could never afford to think that way.” She said then and her smile was gone, the look on her face was grim. “Had I only exacted justice upon those that would have seen me harmed, they would have never stopped tormenting me.” When her eyes met his, they were deep and full of knowing, a sorrow that told him of countless past hurts. It was a flash, but so raw… he could never have missed it.

“There are some forms of transgressions that are too subtle for persecution: a harsh word, a cutting lie… a cruel prank. I was a child; it hurt - at first.” She shrugged the words away, as if they were too distant for true feeling. “But when they realized that any hurt I felt, I could deal back a _hundred_ fold…” the fierceness of her then was something that provoked him. It was their sudden, unexpected closeness, Robb thought. He was standing too close to her now for her honesty not to move him. “…they stopped very soon then, and I had a quieter life for it.”

So many of what she tells him stands without time, without place. She speaks of cruelty, but she has Elia’s friendship, Obara’s devotion. Robb does not know where to place her confessions, when they happened, how? But though all her words cannot fall into orderly places and paint him a clear picture, he does not take them for lies. The idea never even crosses his mind.

“I can understand that.” Robb finally admitted. “I cannot say I would do the same thing.” He warned. “But I can understand _why_ you did.”

Robb watched her shrug as she smiled faintly. “It’s a start, I suppose.” But that smile was so frail, it went almost the same moment the words were out of her mouth and she was again looking at him with utter seriousness. With a sigh, she balanced her elbows on her knees and hid her hace in her hands, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I should’t have done it. I’m not sorry.” She added then, wanting to maek sure of it, as if Robb didn’t alredy know. “But I should have.”

“Why do you think that?”

The princess remained silent for a moent, her chin on her hand, staring ahead.

“They laughed at me.” She said then and the depth of the dejection in her voice was such as Robb ahd never ehard from her. This more than anything seemed to upset her. “I maimed a man, disfigured him… and they laughted at my back as if I was some jape. As if I was ridiculous.”

Her eyes started to shine, whether with emotion or unshed tears he could not tell. The firelight hit he rin sucha way that she was all light and shadow and nothing in between, her face a collection of sharp angles arranged into beauty.

Robb was utterly flabergastered at what he was hearing, so much so that he did not know what to say for a moment.

“Nobody laughed at you.” He said then, so full of conviction tha Myrcella turned to regard him with a small frown.

“I heard them. I know what ridicule sounds like, Robb.”

But Robb shook his head, and he too leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his face right on the same level with hers.

“Whom you heard was the SmallJon, Lord Umber’s son. And he was not laughting _at_ you. You made him laugh, that is true, but it was not at your expence. He laughed… same as he laughed when he _likes_ something which surprises him, and you did. I doubt he expected to – I suppose that it amuses him, that he can find admiration for a Lannister.” Robb couldn’t help the smile when ht thougth back at the SmallJon’s enthusiasm when he’d come to tell his king just what kind of a wild creature Robb was to take on as a wife. “Quite a few other’s feel the same way.”

Myrcella stared at him with her lips slightly parted, in a suprirse and bewilderment so honest that Robb could not help the chuckle, the previous irritation all but forgotten.

Myrcella straightened then, and with a huff she crossed her arms above her chest stared ahead in an expression that Robb would have called a pout, had he dared to acuse her of ever being so frivolous.

“The North breeds a strange people, Winter King.” She told him, as she gave him a look that brimmed with humour. And because he ahd seen just how upset the thought of beain mocked had made her, he knew that he ahd just put a great fear to rest, with so very few words.

It made him feel rather good that they had had that discussion after all. Perhaps she had the right of it: they could become close even while they were arguing. Closer perhaps, because for once he ahd not been so careful and neither had she.

“Don’t be so quick to judje Princess. They will be your people too soon.”

Darkened eyes met his for a moment her face was expressionless before she nodded, looking ever so serious.

No frivoless, this princess was definitely not.

oOo

“I have a favour to ask…” she’d started, and when he inclined his head she seemed unsure, as if not knowing how to start. With a deep breath she ahd made up her mind. “I have never allowed other people to lay abuse upon me with impunity, Robb. It would have been fatal… still is, really, just in different ways now.”

His name rang loudly in his own ears. It was as if she’d slapped him with the certainty in her voice. The way she used his name made the space between them resonate with the emptiness, as if it was both too small and too wide, for that name alone to fill. It sounded perfectly spoken and entirely wrong at the same time.

“So I would plead with you that you remind your honourable Lady mother as well, of something important: that I have no cause to bear her ill will but for what treatment she shows me. …But it’s more important to me that _you_ believe that.”

Robb could do nothing but frown, trying to understand… until it hit him all at once: she knew.

A moment later, he called himself a fool: Of course she knew.

She probably had known the same way Sansa had known: in a moment, without needing reason or proof, only by intuition. That did not even surprise him. Robb knew from experience that you only got better at sniffing the enemy once you’ve been at war for too long.

“I know what your mother thinks of me; I doubt there is anyone who does not know it.” The princess said as she saw realization dawn in his features. “She holds your daughter as if to shield her whenever I pass by.”

Robb knew that of course. He knew it all too well, and my the soft bemusement on Myrcella’s face, she knew why too.

“And I know your younger sister thinks the same, if not worse, of me. But she is young. Too young to, say, speak with a prince and give him attestable leave to speak of rape and murder to a guest and put forth an interrogation…”

Robb sighed heavily.

Finally it was out. To his surprise however, all he felt was relief.

“My mother does not hate you, Myrcella.”

“No, she only hates my name.” the princess rapidly corrected. Bitterly. “I have been quick to find that the difference matters little in the end.”

“Are you telling me that I should now be the referee between the two of you?” the thought alone exhausted him.

Myrcella blinked, as if surprised. “Of course not. Neither myself nor Lady Caitlyn are children. We bear the consequences of our own actions, whatever they may be. At least, I do for mine.” She stated, suddenly sounding weary to the bone. “I am simply saying that I shall not oblige gracefully any longer. Not to anyone… It was never done for anyone else’s benefit anyway.”

“It was done for mine then?” The thought would have amused him if it did not contain the hint of dishonesty. “You would have had me believe I was marrying a flower?”

It sounded like such a joke. She was too hard, too strong in her own self, too inflexible sometimes, even though she could be so adaptable in others. She was too much of her own person to ever be confused with someone else.

“Decieving you was not my intent.” She said slowly, looking at her hands.

“Yes. I have known enough of you to believe that.” But Robb decided not to hide the next thought that came to his head. “But you would have if you had to.”

She did not flinch, on the contrary. She looked up and held his gaze, in silence. Admissions like these did not have to be made out loud. Looking at her though, leaning as she was on one armrest facing him, her knees pulled up against her chest and arms circkling them… he could not find it in himself to resent her for trying to protect herself.

“Do you think you could have? Played on deception for all the years of our life together?” And he could ask that question freely because now he was sure he knew the answer… and because everything about her in those moments hinted at her ease with him and his presence and Robb felt the same.

“I doubt it. I am too self-centred, it seems, to be anyone but myself.” She deadpanned, resigned almost. Robb found himself chuckling at such a plain admission.

“Honestly though… I don’t know.” And her eyes were so open as she looked at him, her smile a little trembling on her lips for a moment. She seemed so vulnerable as she swallowed down her nerves and spoke again. “I have known myself to be made of so many different things… I feel sometimes that I don’t know myself.”

The admission seemed to fall form her lips like a secret.

He looked at her from head to toe. Her feet which she had so nonchalaantly brought up on the sofa, were an inch away from his thigh and the silks and velvets of her skirts spilledacorss his leg ever so carelesly. They had moved closer somehow and Robb was only now realizing it.

The words were out of his mouth before he have himself the chance to regret them.

“Could you imagine yourself as a friend?”

He had spoken to her ever so softly, and yet she looked up sharply at his words, wide eyed and startled out of her contemplation. The smile that started on one corner son grew full and she looked away then, down to her knees. Robb knew that he was seeing her shy for the first time when a delighted blush tinted her pale cheeks, giving her back the warmth of her usual colouring.

“I could think of nothing better, really… or anything I might want more.” Myrcella admitted, giving him the first smile he had seen on her face that day

 _Well, does so little really make the difference for you, princess?_ Was so little, enough to make her so happy?

But Robb knew it was not anything small at all. And that she should know enough of life and the world to prize friendship between them the most, then she was wise beyond her years indeed. They could be good friends, Robb knew, if the world let them have a chance. And in perhaps another short month, the world would have no place between them at all, because she would be his and he would be hers, as far as gods and men were concerned. He was starting to believe that it indeed would be so, and the world would take second place to whatever they managed to created between them.

And it startled him, how much he wanted it. How much he craved for it to be real.

But if a moment ago, friendship seemed like the brightest idea he’d ever had, not it also seemed like the most dim-witted as well. Robb felt it was so, as he let his eyes take in the shape of her face, her so proud beauty that could make her look both austere and playful; the gold of her hair and roundness of her shoulders, the swell of her breast and dip of her waist. _Friendship_ … the truth was he knew nothing of friendship with a woman such as her. And he most certainly had never hand any friends whose bow of their upper lip would seem so inviting.

Friendship indeed!

He _wanted_ her. Probably had wanted her from the very first moment he saw her (… probably even resented her a little for that, but no longer). Friendship seemed so misplaced when he allowed himself to dwell on what kind of reaction he could have to her if he but allowed himself a moment of freedom to.

But she shone so brightly at the mere mention of it.

Robb had a lashing urge to kiss her then. Just lean down a bit and it would be there: the kiss was already waiting at the corner of her smiling mouth. The suddenness of it surprised him, but not the impulse. That he had been having for a while…

Stillness came between them then, and Robb had a notion that she sensed his desire in his immobility, in his eyes and how they were burning on her skin; how they thoughtlessly fixed on her lips, pale as they were now, though not less inviting. He knew and she did as well - there was perfect clarity between them in that moment, and Myrcella chose not to break it. But her smile faded and she was holding her breath inside her chest, not even daring to release it, which Robb noticed and it told him something… He searched her eyes and they were wide upon him. He did not know how to read her, but the thought of seeing dread on her face, _her_ face, she who had not dreaded anything today…

The desire was snuffed out of him and suddenly as it had come.

He wanted her kiss. A bit deliriously perhaps, caught in a timeless moment in the dark, but he wanted it. And she did not…

Robb gave her a smile instead, softly, the same warm smile that he gave the sisters whom he loved and his mother… He tried to think of her as he thought of them, and to show her the same tenderness, thought she was neither. Instead of her lips, he took her hand and kissed the smooth skin just below her knuckles, feeling the rough texture of her palm, which was so different from that soft patch he had pressed his lips against.

He had not mean to frighten her - he had foolishly thought her beyond being frightened.

Perhaps he had been wrong. She was after all, so very young.

“We _will_ be good friends, Myrcella, because we want to be. I think that is the very best way a friendship can start.”

She had smiled back to him ever so brightly… and not taken back her hand.

oOo

She rose soon after that. Her weariness was taking over her, and her lids become heavier and heavier over her eyes. And as Robb watched her leave … he wondered how much of all that he would give her, would come to be missing pieces in the end. How much of him she would be able to steal, and if he too would be gathering pieces of her as well.

Robb knew that he would. She was already giving them away, in honest smiles and sincere laughter, and little bits of her thoughts here and there, little pinpricks inside the workings of her mind. They were already tearing themselves apart slowly – Robb could tell.

It should frighten him.

It did not.

Having had the choice between being the perpetrator of her dismemberment like this, smile after smile; and being dismembered _with_ her, slowly, _by her,_ in turn… Robb had chosen the second.

It was only fair after all. He would not lie a single ounce more than he had to. And all that would unfold between them, between ‘now’ and ‘then’, when all would come clean… all those things would be _real_. He promised himself that – because he had seen the same desire in Myrcella too, the same craving. She wanted something true as well, even if it was something as small as friendship. Where hearts were concerned, Robb vowed that he would not allow lies between them.

He could only hope that that would mean something when the time came.

oOo

When he went to sleep that night, that same dream that has haunted him for years, came to him again. But it was different this time. Robb couldn't tell what it was that made such a difference, but he could _feel_ it.

The walls of grey stone were the same, and the darkness felt as stifling as always. It could have been anywhere, but he knew this was Winterfell. He was afraid, there was something about the darkness that made him uneasy, but more than the dark, what he thought he saw in front of him frightened him. She was the same as she'd always been ever since he started dreaming of her: pale as the moon and sitting on snow, clothed in mist that seemed to swirl about her. Even her hair seemed to be of smoke and he could never tell whether she was real or he was dreaming of a ghost. He'd thought for a long time that she was Roslyn come to haunt him, but he had been dreaming about this apparition before he ever set eyes on his lovely wife.

He looked at her from a distance; all about them there was an impenetrable darkness that made Robb’s bones shiver; where she sat was the only light he could see. And yet instead of being inviting, that petrified him. And though he knew that he should go to her, Robb did not want to. He wanted to turn and leave, find a way out of the maze he had tangled himself in, scream for someone, _anyone_. There was something utterly unbearable about the sight of that ghost, something that ripped at him… But instinctively Robb knew that there was nobody who could help. There was no one there but her. He didn't even know who she was or where she’d come from, but he knew this: they were alone.

So he stepped forward, as he always did, and went to her, sat by her. Every time he did, the closer he came, the clearer he could see the stars gleaming in her hair; little pinpricks of light. She was shockingly pale, achingly white against the darkness that smothered everything else. But Robb could see nothing but sorrow in her and nothing but grief did the sight of her bring him, though he was never able to even see her face clearly.

…never, until this night.

He saw the Myrcella Baratheon's face when his ghostly apparition turned her head. She looked nothing like Myrcella, but Robb knew, the way one oft does in dreams, without sense, only through feeling. It _was_ the princess staring back at him… and yet not. There was no gold in her hair, no sun on her skin. Even the green of her summer eyes was gone, leaving something pale in its wake. Pale grey and alight with great sorrow that shrunk his heart to see it and frightened him deeply, though he knew not why.

Her colors had bled out. White… all about her was ashen and so was she. Pale as snow, thin as mist.

 _Death…_ Every time he felt it, even though only this time he had seen who brought it to him.

Death was all that filled Robb’s heart as he looked at her and when he reached a hand towards her, Myrcella filtered through his fingers like smoke. She was there, and yet she was not. And now that he could finally see her face, he called her by name, though it hardly even sounded like her name. But she heard it, and when she did, tears fell down her cheeks and froze there, shining little chirps of ice on her bloodless cheek.

_'I am alone Robb. Alone and lost.'_

The sound she’d made was hollow and it echoed around him so strongly that it seemed it was the darkness that spoke it and the walls that whispered her words back to him… and perhaps it was so since she had not opened her lips at all.

But the sound of her voice, that desolation in it echoed in him too, and it made him ache, it made him want to scream. That phantom pain that he always felt and always dreaded came to him, and it ached so acutely that Robb was sure his chest must have torn open… but there was no wound on him. But the pain felt so real; it hardly left him any quarter…

And it was then that reached her hands to him, unwinding them from her lap - and it was then that he saw the blood. It always happened in the same way… and never once failed to frighten him asif for the same time. Against the whiteness of her, the blood was a violent scream. More tears fell and froze and her pale hands coated in thick red reached for him, whether for help of for murder he did not know. He only knew that the whiteness of her was drowning in red.

 _My blood..._ Robb knew it with shocking certainly. _My blood._

Her hand would touch his face and he would feel the warm and sticky red coat his cheek. Red fingers strangling the mist, blooming in her lap, on her breast.

He wanted to get away from her, but could not.

Trapped, trapped and his blood soaked the snow crimson. Beasts roared in the darkness and the cold and the white was gone, drowned by flames and screams…

Robb woke shaking and coated in sweat, a shout trapped in his throat. He took breath after deep breath, trying to swallow it down. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and the echo of a threat in his heart, dangling above him like a sword held by a thin thread.

Once the first wave of panic this dream caused him passed, he wanted to scream again, but this time out of frustration.

What did it _mean_?

Robb was no stranger to strange dreams. He had had wolf dreams, as he’d called them once, dreams about the future and about riddles. But this one, a dream of darkness and snow, ghosts and blood… it had been tormenting him for _years_ and never had he found anything to explain it. He had feared for every woman in his life: his mother, his sisters, Roslyn who he had inevitably lost. Robb had knowing without knowing that it was not Roslyn walking his nightmares. Just as he knew now without knowing that every night from now on, he would seen that ghost with Myrcella Baratheon’s face because it was her… it had always been her…

The irony was not lost on him: he had been dreaming about the Iron Throne princess since before she was a conscious thought in his mind.

It didn’t help him make sense of it though. what did it mean? Was Myrcella going to try to kill him? Or was _she_ going to die? In his dream, she felt more like a ghost than a person. There was a palpable scent of death about her that always chilled his blood.

Robb rubbed his face and when that didn't do the trick, he went to his basin and splashed himself with the cold water. Dawn's pale fingers were already lighting the sky - it would be useless to even try to fall asleep again, he knew. He would be sleeping anymore this night, even if it hadn't been too late for it anyway. He could never sleep after he dreamt this particular dream. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he'd be back into that room, with red-drowned fingers reaching for him and his blood blooming scarlet stains in the snow… and no closer to understanding what it meant than he had been the day this nightmare first came to him.

oOo

 

[[1]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftnref1) Anais Nin quote

[[2]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftnref2) quoted from Sansa: A stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns. I just didn’t want to use the exact same words.

[[3]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftnref3)A sorrow so deep it was hidden from tears – that is a quote from some write which is not me, but the name of whom I cannot remember right now.

[[4]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1978959/chapters/new#_ftnref4) From Danaerys, when she talks with Jorah about the slavers.


	12. (Cont.1)

oOo

_"We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls."_

_Anais Nin_

The marshes of the Neck knew no winter. That was what the cragonmen said between themselves. The land was ever alive: If one would peel back the layers of snow that fell from the sky, one would find the vivid green moss and the warm brown bark of the trees underneath. There was nature there such as Myrcella had never seen: trees that seemed planted in water and not earth. Trees as tall as towers, creating heavy canopies of deep shade and silence. There were plains, infinite expanses of small bushes that seemed to float on waters that were so still they seemed mirrors.

And the weirwoods. The woods of the gods… The northerners prayed there to their faceless deities. Fearsome, was what they seemed to Myrcella, those faces seemed to scream out of the white bark, crying tears of blood. If it was truly the gods that looked out of them, then she didn't want them to see her.

The castle itself was odd… and beautiful. Hidden among the water-trees so well it seemed as if it was a natural growth of them. Made of wood and stone, green vines and moss making its way along most of the walls. The keep was not small by any means, but was not built like other keeps she had seen either. Where fortresses searched to outdo the terrain they were built upon, this floating keep blended with it, was shaped by the land and it's materials in every way – as were the cragonmen. Its towers were wide but never outreaching the tallest of treetops, its layout seeking to resonate the life that surrounded men, and not outdo it. At night she could see the lightbugs from her window, flying from treetop to treetop and dusting the darkness like pinpricks of light in the night… Myrcella had never seen anything that more closely resembled magic. And it was true what they said: Greywater Watch floated. Myrcella could see it day after day in the changing of the sight from her window, but she could not feel it. If one was to sit very still outside however, they said…

Oh, but what did it matter! She was just trying to distract herself anyway. All she could think of was not on the breathtaking and utterly unfamiliar beauty of the marshes and their strange plants and quiet people, but on the last moment before she departed Riverrun.

Well, before _he_ departed it.

The army had moved out by night, but Myrcella had heard the commotion because sleep eluded her and the corridors of Riverrun had been her distraction. She had almost run into Robb as he stepped out of his room. The shock on his face had been funny at first, before Myrcella saw him in full armour. She'd known then, what was happening. And he saw her awareness in her eyes. It passed between them in a moment, without words. Myrcella had wished him luck, and meant it. She did not want him to die. Gods knew what would happen to the Starks if they lost him, but it would not be pretty. Her grandfather would seek to tear them apart till all that was left of them was another quaint song… but that Myrcella had not spoken of, ever.

Myrcella had given him her hand, held his fingers as he kissed hers, and then taken her leave… the surprise on his face had been fleeting before it was replaced by amusement.

"Is that how you would send me to war, princess?"

The words had stopped her cold and her face had shown it. His eyes were so intent, Myrcella could not tell if he was jesting or if he was not.

"In what other manner would you prefer to be send to carnage, your grace?" And she'd done it on purpose then, because he'd called her 'princess' first. His smile had stretched wider and as she looked at his eyes that sparkled with mischief, Myrcella had known: this was play. Warmth had infused her.

She could feel its touch even now.

"I would rather be send off with a kiss, and my name on fair lips."

Myrcella had almost laughed, but caught herself in time. She had taken a step further in his closeness; only one was enough to bring them within a foot's distance. She gave him a playful smile as she looked up at him.

"Such simple wishes. I would gladly fulfil them, but alas…"

He had laughed then, the sound thrilling her into a full smile of her own. Robb Stark had a beautiful laugh.

"Alas, what?" he'd asked. She had felt his fingers twisting in her sleeve, ghosting over the skin of her wrist before he realized that she only had a nightshirt under her heavy cloak. He had drawn away then, ever so respectful… and oh, how she liked him so much better for being able to do so.

"Alas," Myrcella had continued. "I do not give goodbye kisses."

Robb Stark had looked her in contemplation for a very short moment before smiling. Looked at her unnervingly, because it had been as if He'd known why she could possibly say such a thing, and what she was hiding behind that smile that made it playful… known that it was anything but, and that she meant it. That was probably why his stares were so unnerving, Myrcella deduced now that she had a moment to think of it: it was not the colour of his eyes, so much like blue ice; or how cold of hard they could be, nor their handsome shape. It was the way he could look at anyone and seem to _know_ , when other people could only guess. It was what made people around him uncomfortable.

It was, Myrcella knew, what made _her_ so nervous sometimes… like it had that night, as he so casually asked for a kiss.

"No? Not even to a king?" he had asked her then, playful again.

Myrcella had shaken her head. _No._

"How about to a friend?" he dared then.

" _Especially_ not to a friend." Myrcella remembered herself saying, sure in her own words and intentions. "Friends are only ever welcomed back, never said goodbye to."

His smile had been lopsided. It was lovely.

"Is that another dornish tradition?"

She'd smiled… perhaps not a tradition, but it was something she had learned in Dorne. "Close enough."

"How _do_ you say goodbye in Dorne then?" he asked then, sounding actually curious. It never stopped amazing her how openly he could listen to some things, when most would sneer at a Lannister speaking of Dornish traditions as if they were her own.

"You don't." Myrcella provided immediately. And perhaps he'd thought her silly when she reached under her heavy cloak, undid the sash of her nightgown and put the white silk around his neck like a shawl… perhaps he had, but he'd still bowed his head, looking at her with curiosity has she placed both hands at the sides of his face, nearing her forehead to his as she whispered the parting words that were usually spoken in Dorne, when a loved one left.

When she was done, Myrcella had straightened, but Robb had not. He had still been looking at her through fascinated eyes, leaning into her a bit, just as she had to look up to see him.

"Was that a prayer?" he'd asked her then, almost as if the words spoke themselves. The thought of herself praying had amused Myrcella for half a second.

"No. I wished you well on your endeavour, and told you I would celebrate your return. …They are the traditional words friends exchange before parting ways."

His eyes smiled at her as he let the silence linger between them for a moment… and unlike any other time before, it bound them together rather than laying thick and heavy between them like an obstacle.

"Because friends are never said goodbye to." He said then, as if to let her know he had understood. His eyes had smiled at her. "Then I will look forward to being welcomed back, as you said." Robb Stark had said in all seriousness, looking at her in the eye without flinching. It had almost been a challenge.

Myrcella had not said anything to that. silence was as good as an acceptance.

He had kissed her hand again and gone, and she had only had time to think that perhaps, yes, she would look forward to welcoming him back as well. Only once she was back into her room and warm in her own bed, could she admit to it though. …The thought turned to a prickle not one hour later, after she was done dissecting it every which way. It was bothersome the next morning and wearisome in the days of travel. Now, a fortnight after, as she looked out of the her window into the marshes of the Neck, it was starting to grate.

They had had no news at all.

Waiting was the work of women, men said. Myrcella found it was no wonder, then, how some women went mad in their waiting.

oOo

She revolted against stillness. She could not live by it, never had been able to, and Greywater Watch seemed to be the epicentre of it. Myrcella found in the days that she passed at Greywater Watch, that waiting did not suit her at all. So she gave up on it and made herself fall into a routine of movement and purpose. Time had to serve a function and the only one Myrcella could find in her temporary residence was exploring it, learning from its people… and learning of Rose Stark.

All her self-appointed tasks proved to be strenuous, but the King's daughter was perhaps the most trying. But Myrcella was nothing if not persistent.

Every morning she would wake with dawn and go find the little princess, the Rose of the North, as they were already calling her. (Myrcella had barely kept herself from rolling her eyes at that name when she heard it.) They would eat together – well, Myrcella would eat; then the battle to feed the famed Rose of the North would begin and it usually ended up with both sides capitulating or Myrcella issuing a stern edict that prohibited further fucking about with what was supposed to be eaten… something which the little girl took to, and rather strangely so – for Myrcella at least. It had been a while since she'd been so obeyed by a child, not since Tommen was one. The little girl's willingness to do as Myrcella told her perhaps stemmed from the fact that Myrcella did not hesitate to harshen her tone a little when she wanted to be obeyed, but still, it was surprising. They would play a little after that, in the many gardens of the floating fortress. Myrcella tried reading to the little girl, but Rose was not one to stay in one place for long. She tried singing, dancing and playing with whatever toys she could find. Rose Stark enjoyed the attention she got and revelled in it, and in everything new and shiny or colourful.

She cried sometimes though, asked for her father. She threw tantrums and Myrcella had had to learn how not to lose her nerve or her temper at them. But most often than not, the child wanted to be spoken to, and played with, and Myrcella found herself doing that, when the Lady Reed would ever so unceremoniously hand the princess to her as if it was Myrcella's duty to provide for the child's entertainment. It had been irritating at first… until a whisper told Myrcella that it would be far better for her if she made herself known to this child.

She simply boiled form want of seeing lady Caitlyn's face when Rose would reach out to her or react to Myrcella with a smile or a laugh. All Rose could call her now was Cee and that was more of a gurgle than a true name… at which, in spite of herself, Myrcella always smiled. It was only made sweeter by imagining the look on Lady Stark's fierce face when she heard it. Myrcella had told herself that she bore the older woman no ill will and hoped to believe it... but she could not deny herself. Catelyn Stark was a strangely dislikeable person. Only once though, and very briefly, out of sheer spite, had Myrcella wished that Rose would call her 'mother', for the lady Catelyn to hear…

The spite had gone out of her the moment after the thought was conjured and Myrcella felt the bite of shame.

Rose Stark was a motherless child, a child of merely 2 years of age. A child who was beautiful and who, despite the outbursts, had a gentle temper and such a loving heart that it had made having her around bearable. She could so easily be endearing, Myrcella knew. All it would take was time.

_A motherless child…_

No, Myrcella would not play on love that way. It would be unfair and beneath her. She didn't want to be Rose's mother. She just wanted the little girl not to hate or mistrust her.

 _She is first-born_ , a voice warned her… but Myrcella knew that made no matter. The north was as far from Dorne as one could make it. Dornish law did not apply there. Robb Stark's first-born _son_ would be his heir. A part of her felt bitterness in that. And maybe Rose too would grown to be bitter about it: queenship denied to her, because she lacked a little worm between her legs. It was so unfair that even Myrcella could see herself burning with indignation in the name of her gender. And perhaps that would be why Rose would hate Myrcella and her half siblings. Perhaps she would always be a threat. If Catelyn Tully had her way, no doubt it would be so.

Which was why it was so important for Myrcella to win Rose Stark's affection. With the right education and nurturing, Rose might not grow to feel that way. Love was not necessary; lack of hatred was, however, imperative. And with the right marriage, Rose would be taken care of, in time, and no risk would ever come to Myrcella's children from Robb Stark's first-born daughter. Myrcella knew little of the north, but she knew the minds of noble men and woman and north or south, she knew they would take better to a prince whose mother was a Lannister, than they would to a princess, whose mother had been a Frey. Her children would be safe.

And if they were not… Myrcella would _make_ them safe.

But once she started thinking in that line, she frightened herself, and immediately shifted her attention to other, more harmless thoughts.

oOo


	13. (Cont.2)

oOo

_"Don't say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you."_

_Anais Nin_

It was the Greatjon and his men that Robb send back to pick up his daughter and the princess both from Greywater Watch. He had send Greywind on the hunt near the northern bounds of the marshes of the Neck so Robb knew when the company made it out almost as soon as they crossed the Fever river. He'd wanted to go himself, but could not: he had an army to lead and a march to plan. The waiting was making him more restless than usual though. His mother had smilingly pointed out his impatience to him and Robb had not tried to deny it. He _was_ impatient: to see his daughter, because he'd missed her and was anxious for her safety. Impatient to be gone northwards, because more work awaited him in Winterfell.

…He had been impatient to see _her_ as well. Impatience and anticipation blended well together, he could almost say he did not know one from the other… except he did. He knew things now that he had not known for a long time.

There had not been a single night since he had left her presence that Robb had not dreamed of her face, pale and lifeless, and his blood on her hands. The thought of her was slowly becoming an obsession. Whenever the room was quiet and he had little else more pressing to think of, she crowded his head. Where she was, what she was doing, thinking, feeling. So he was not that surprised when a raven from the Greatjon came, telling him among other things that the Myrcella Baratheon had send a raven to King's Landing the moment she was out of the marshes of Greywater Watch – he felt as if he had conjured the consequences of her existence into being by simply thinking of her too much. A foolish notion if there ever was one: he'd never known a more autonomous agent than this princess. The missive was apparently addressed to her uncle, the Imp, saying that she was well and safe, that her stay was comfortable and her soon to be family of the North was most kind to her (at which Robb had snorted); asking after her little brother's health and the Kingslayer's wounds… and wanting to know if she should expect any of her relations at her wedding.

That was all she had written. It did not mention anything about the campaign, about his strategy or Moat Cailin or anything else that Robb had shared with her.

The Greatjon - and here was where Robb had rolled her eyes - had sounded almost dismissive of this message Myrcella had send back south. It had been mentioned in the end of his letter, a total of two hasty lines, almost as if he thought it unimportant. The Greatjon was no fool however, and Robb was glad that he was not so prejudiced against the princess as others were. He knew that others would have immediately pinned a suspicious eye on the princess and labelled her a spy, even though her letter held nothing strategic.

But still… for someone so careful, Myrcella had given herself quite the opening there. The sheer carelessness of this irritated Robb to no end: he knew she knew better. As he knew that she probably had not cared.

The day that he was alerted of their party being spotted a mile out of camp, Robb up the hill to greet his daughter and his future wife himself. He was not surprised to see Myrcella riding at the head of the company. She was recognisable even from afar: her hood was down, her braid gleamed golden in the sun... and unless she had a flame on her breast, that red head of hair Robb saw in front of her was his Rose, riding along with the princess.

His heart almost stopped when they rode through the plane at a speed that – while nowhere near what Robb knew Myrcella was capable of - was still too fast for one riding with a child... especially if it was _his_ child! For a moment he had a mind to scream at her to stop. In the same moment he was angry at her with all his being!

But then as they get closer he sees Rose with her arms out, laughing and the princess' face almost splitting in her grin.

It a game, he realizes. They are both laughing... and he has no idea how to take it.

They stop short in front of his horse. Rose is squealing loudly clapping her hands and Myrcella is chuckling, flushed and happy as his daughter clamours _'Again, again!_ ' from the very moment they stop, without even paying him any mind.

Robb looked and them and almost forgot why he was so angry a moment ago. All the tension that had been coiling in him snapped at the sight of her with his daughter so close, and that snap left him quite thunderstruck for a long moment.

The princess took the words from him.

"She was bored and impatient, so we decided on a truce: we would ride together if she stopped crying." she told him nonchalantly around a chuckle. Rose looked up at her pulling at her braid and still wanting the other fast ride, her protest getting louder by the moment.

Robb could only raise his eyebrows at her, but then he shook his head. "Welcome to the North, Princess."

Her smile was wistful. "Thank you, you grace."

He turned his eyes to his daughter and to the racket she was making. He could not look at her without smiling. He didn't need to ask what she wanted.

"Are you certain she won't fall?" He asked Myrcella, who raised one eyebrow at him as if the questing was an offence. Robb resisted the impulse to narrow his eyes at her for the presumption. That was his daughter she was carrying with her!

"She has the same chances of falling as I do, your grace: she is tied to me." the princess clarified, and then without even waiting for an answer, she turned to his daughter and asked if she was ready. Rose screamed her glee and put her arms out immediately, making Myrcella chuckle.

Robb knew better than expect an invitation. One look from Myrcella, and he urged his horse forward, before he was left behind by the two princesses riding alongside him. He would have a few words with her later about the ravens she saw fit to displace and the invitations she put forth. But for now, he just rode and enjoyed Rose's laugh mixing with Myrcella's as they chased the wind.

oOo

The only reason Myrcella did not laugh in Robb Stark's face when she saw him, was because she judged it more fun to do so in private (…and because that new cut he was sporting on the corner of his mouth – whether by someone's knuckles of steel she did not know - made her think better of it; as did his overall filthy appearance, making him look as if he's just now crawled out of the battle itself. She was sure she saw specks of dried blood on his armour, as well as dirt.) He had been so shocked at the sight of her with his daughter that he had forgotten to even berate her for the recklessness of it.

But Myrcella had no illusions: she knew that it was only because of Rose's gladness at the ride that she had been spared that particular discussion.

Still, it would have been worth it.

The camp was settled around a small keep Northwest of Moat Cailin; it was busier than she had ever seen and thought it might have been gutless of her, Myrcella was glad they were nowhere near the field of battle. She was rushed inside the meagre keep and she greeted the rest of the Wolves in the main hall. Sansa looked worn but happy and relieved, Arya looked as impassive as ever and the King's sourpuss mother looked at Myrcella as if she had just killed a dozen puppies…Nothing had changed much.

Nothing but Robb Stark of course. Or rather, the way he looked at her.

The whole time she had made the formal greetings he had been there by her side and his eyes, followed her with the intent of a hunter watching his next meal.

His reaction had surprised her; or rather, the intensity of it.

Myrcella had known that he would not exactly be overjoyed over that raven she had send to King's Landing; no doubt he would try to lecture her on all the perks of keeping herself quiet and see-through for the time's being as to not entice suspicion. She had not, however, anticipated such animosity as the one she saw in his eyes, in his hard set face and rigid jawline whenever he looked at her. The back of her neck was starting to prickle from the strength of his glare. She'd expected exasperation, but not _this!_ The Winter King seemed so angry that he could not even be bothered to hide it. It disconcerted Myrcella that she could have incurred such passion in him for something that to her was so infinitesimal, especially because Robb Stark usually seemed so cold, untouchable by things so mundane as a temper (though she knew better: he did have a temper. It was simply hidden). Lord Umber too had been entirely dismissive of her message once he read its contents. She had expected the same capability for logic from Robb Stark as well.

Apparently that had not been a realistic expectation.

She was willing to take it from him though, as long as she'd know for sure if anyone of her family would be showing up in Winterfell to give her away.

Or so she thought at first... except this had gone on for hours; he would not speak to her and his manner was rigid and almost harsh, and even now a dinner in the hall of the small keep where they were settled, he would not _stop staring_! From mild apprehension Myrcella started to get angry.

What was his problem exactly?!

From anger she then started to get well and truly furious. There she had been, anticipating to see his sorry face; and he dared looked at her as if he'd like nothing better than to throttle her for one tiny message.

Myrcella set her shoulders and straightened her spine. She would not apologise.

Halfway through the meal the frustration got too much and she was moments away from snapping at him to ' _stop looking at me like that_!'

She dared a glance at him over the rim of her glass. He was not looking at her at the moment, busy as he was speaking to Sansa in a quick manner, seemingly almost forgetting of the plate in front of him. The cut that ran vertically at the corner of his mouth did not seem so bad as far as wounds went and it would most likely heal without leaving much of itself behind, but for now the scar was still red and angry and it made his glares into something even more intimidating. She could handle the glaring – to hells with it, she could glare _back_! But Myrcella so wished she could understand _why_! He looked at her with those cold eyes that burned the same ice does when you hold it too long in warm hands and she felt the prickle that it left behind acutely; but that he would not even speak with her, even though between her arrival and dinner there had been _plenty_ of opportunity, that was what bother her most.

As if drawn by her gaze, his eyes snapped at her so suddenly that Myrcella was caught and didn't even have the presence of mind to look away. She held his look, wolfish orbs of a blue so cold it almost flashed like steel, staring at her unblinking. Myrcella held them, hoping that he could see her confusion... and her uncompromising position. A feeling a restlessness come over her when he did not look away for long moments, because she got the sensation that she had been entirely wrong and he did not want her to submit at all. That this, this connection was what he had wanted every time she had looked away.

_What...?_

But their gazes held longer than they should have in public. Long enough for his mother and sisters to notice. Before they could turn to her Myrcella snapped at herself and turned her attention to her food, but she could not concentrate on it.

_What was this? Why?_

What had she missed?

And if she had not missed anything, if this was only because of that raven she had send... well the King of Winter would have to deal with it, the thought unkindly. How else would she be able to push her boundaries if she did not test them first.

oOo

It was late when he managed to find himself alone with her. And once she turned the corner and he was there, Robb knew that she would think it coincidence, because she had found him without looking, but the truth could not be farther. He had tracked her though Greywind's eyes and his own, knowing where she would go and following the paths of her scent, knowing where she would be before she got there.

She had been tense, he had been riled up and painfully restraining himself. The result was unpleasant bits of conversation followed by awkward pauses... until finally she had snapped.

"If I may… did I do something to incur your displeasure?" she had snapped then, just as she was about to go, but changing her mind, annoyance winning over manners,

Robb did not find himself lenient. She knew well enough what she had done!

"You should not have send that raven." he said then, gravely, a restlessness searing at his limbs, making his palms itch.

He watched the spark of anger light a fire in her eyes.

"I did not speak to them of anything of consequence and you know that… your grace."

She had not once called him by name. It irritated him beyond measure... and so far gone he seemed to be that he did not even notice how his reasoning was devoid of any logic at all.

Perhaps because his words seemed to come faster out of his mouth than his thoughts could stop them.

"Do you think that matters?" Robb snapped at her then, taking a step forward. "Or that anyone who cares to see a spy in you, would care what you wrote?! I can hardly believe the incongruence you your actions: you cross yourself at every corner."

Her sneer was ugly on her face, her demeanour stiffer than ever. "My actions are my own and I take full responsibility for them. You need not worry over the hardships of my future, your grace, though I do apricia..." She stopped, and Robb watched her as she fisted her hands and with her eyes closed tried to gather herself into a composed state again, breath after deep breath. "I do not wish to have this conversation. Good night." she said tightly and turned her back on him.

Robb didn't know what possessed him, he truly didn't. One moment he was standing there, outraged beyond belief that she would dare dismiss him, and the next he had her by the wrist, his hand was pulled her face to his and he had kissed her before he ever knew he had closed the distance.

He felt it all at once: the sharp inhale that froze in her lungs and how it had allowed him to part her lips and taste their sweetness in a moment too brief, the way she went utterly still with shock her pulse jumped, and how his split lips stung as he pressed them to hers, firmly...

A heartbeat was all the madness lasted. Her body screamed at him to back away and he did, shocked at himself so much that he almost took another step back from her entirely...

Both their breaths were harsh, as if they'd been running… and perhaps they had been all day, ever since he saw her across that plain. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted as she tried to draw her next breath. The shell-shocked look of her made Robb feel the sting of his idiocy acutely and he let her go completely, putting air between them… but when he tried to move away, her handcaught her wrist and tightened so hard that he could feel her nails biting into flesh and leaving moon-shaped marks there.

Her head shook minutely as she gulped. Her eyes had never looked so green nor so wide… and he'd never seen them so full of wonder and tentative softness.

"No, I…" her whisper was barely heard but he was so close he would have heard her breathe in the dark. "I…"

Long fingers ghosted over the corner of his mouth where he'd been cut, not touching his wound even though the vicinity of her tingled all the same. Robb understood her without even needing words – the relief was strange, a rush in his veins - and smiled with a small shake of his head as he leaned down, slower this time, his hand finding her waist and following its shape, deliberately. Gently. Giving her time to back away or come to him as she chose.

"I doesn't hurt." He whispered back, his voice sounding so rough it surprised him. It did not, in fact. He'd had far worse. And even if it had hurt, he wanted to taste her more than he might ever want to avoid a small sting.

This time his kiss was softer. She came to him, one fraction at a time and closed the distance between them, first with her hand against his face then with her lips that met his. He did not crush himself to her; it was better to taste her softness slowly, matching the way she wanted to be kissed…

She liked to be kissed slowly, and kissed back as if she was at her own leisure, both curious and wanting at the same time. It was a strain not to fall into her deeply, but there was a tremble to her hand as she sneaked it at the back of his neck and Robb knew enough of himself to realize that the pleasant warmth he was feeling inside out now would turn insistent all too soon if he did not control it. So Robb kept to her lips as, andtasted of wine and smelled of heady things that enveloped him in a warm blanked… But then she opened her mouth to his and stepped into his body, and the wet slide of her tongue invaded his senses like a thunderclap, obliterating the caution he'd been trying to maintain. And as it had so rarely happened to him before, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much longer than a moment.[1]He knew the feel of a kiss that overtakes the senses, the moan in her throat, the arch of her body into his and the igniting of his blood, all in the space of a moment…

He had to break away from her to breathe but that did not mean he had to stop, so when she turned her face to gasp in air, he anchored his hand to her cheek and kissed a line from the corner of her sweet mouth to the end of her jaw, and then her soft throat and the crock of her neck until she had her arms wrapped around him tight and fingers fisting in his hair… until his name left her lips like a call and he realized he'd trapped them both against a had wall and unyielding desire…

He moved to look into her eyes, still so wide and lips now red, full of new wonder. He was sure he looked much the same. He certainly felt just as shocked.

As they looked at each other and absorbed the meaning of the sizzle between them, time awakened again and moved sluggishly on[2], leaving the two of them dazed and new.

But they kept there against that wall for a while longer.

…

And if someone saw them from a corner, then they would have seen the Lannister princess, standing much too close to the Winter King, speaking softly to each other so that the whisper wouldn't carry. They would have seen the princess raise her hand and with the corner of her sleeve dab at the King's lip without interrupting what she was saying, with the smallest smile, even as the blood seeped into the silk and marked the whiteness of it red

And perhaps if this had been anyone else but Catelyn Tully that was seeing such things, they might have missed what her eyes saw, but a mother knows her children. Instinctively, she knows, always. Which was how Catelyn knew that her son was making a mistake, looking at the Lannister girl with that kind of tenderness. She knew it because her heart clenched in fear at the sight of it – of such honesty between them. He should not smile at her that way, nor should Cercei Lannister's daughter be able to look back at him with such full wondrous eyes.

Those two in the corner might not be aware of it, but Catelyn was: Lions and Wolves simply were not of each other's herd and they would always end up tearing each other apart… one way or another.

oOo

_"I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me."_

_Anais Nin_

The rest of the journey north was a blur of days without clear dividing lines. Myrcella ate and slept and rode at a gruelling pace. North, always north. She saw the same outline that she had seen years ago, when with the rest of her family that had travelled North through the King's Road… and yet it was as different now as it could be: difference people and difference purpose… Myrcella too was changed so much that she almost did not recognise that little girl that had come through that same road years ago.

The further north they went, the clearer it became where they were going: the plains started getting windier, the mountains ever whiter and the cold more biting.

The north was welcoming her…

It was when it first snowed that Myrcella truly found a moment of wonder. She had not seen snow ever since she had been to Winterfell last. The wonder left its place to distaste once the cold set in though, especially after it was announced that they were to hasten their pace even more for fear of being caught in a snowdrift too high to travel through. Myrcella had wondered during those days, if a week of respite before the wedding would be enough for her to rest. She most certainly did not want to look like death warmed over upon the altar. But mostly she did not think on it much; even because she knew she would not be married in a sept but in the woods, in the eyes of the northern gods. She would not particularly care, if she did not find those trees so frightening. The rest of it made sense. All the king's bannermen had to be there for the wedding, so why ever wait to have it later, when they could all just on with it when they were all together at the same place?The sheer practicality of it might have put any other bride off, but Myrcella did not see the point. She was not a bride, she was a princess and about to be made a queen. All she wanted was to get it over with, and make as much of an impression as possible at the same time.

Sansa had assured her that the castle would be ready for them once they arrived. That it had been rebuilding for almost two years and it was almost done. Myrcella never added anything when the Starks spoke of Winterfell. The light in their eyes did not permit it. There was something fierce and absolute in them when they spoke of their home, as if they were built of the same stones and their blood were the mortar that held it together. She could not understand it, but then again, Myrcella knew she had never belonged anywhere so fully: perhaps she was not meant to understand it; only envy it.

When the day came, to Myrcella it was just like any other day. But when they stood upon that hill and overlooked the fields around Winterfell and saw the high walls and proud towers rising against the iron sky… that had been a moment like no other for the Starks. Myrcella knew, because she had been looking upon their faces. She had no particular interest for the keep, but that look that Robb had on his face, in was mirrored in al of them in the same way: a longing so strong that it could break hearts… and among them a moment so intimate, that Myrcella could not look at their faces for long without feeling as if she was intruding on something she had no part of.

She had turned to Winterfell again; Robb Stark's home. _Her_ home, in but days from that very moment. Her heart had jumped then, and not because those grey dreary walls spoke to her was her future she was looking at, Myrcella realized. Without meaning to, her eyes went to the King and she was astounded to find that he was looking at her this time, a smile such as she had only seen on his faceonce, and a soft yielding in his eyes.

Myrcella had given him the faintest of her smiles, the most true. The one he'd have to look for to find.

For the second time in almost six years, Myrcella Baratheon would cross crossed the threshold of Winterfell, ancient seat of house Stark… and neither she nor the castle were the same. But she was glad about one thing above others: she did not come here as a queen, no even as a bride. She would enter Winterfell's walls as herself.

_Myrcella Baratheon of house Lannister…_

She could not help a smile: uncle Tyion called her that in jest. She had always found it foolish.

oOo

The first days were a hustle of ongoing preparations so much so that everything became a blur. Lady Stark ran the keep with the efficiency of a general and Sansa was no less capable in helping her mother. They seemed to delight in doing everything they possibly could – perhaps it had something to do with finally being back in their home after so long a time away from it. Arya on the other handwas always off somewhere secretive with her brother, Rickon, the boy whom Myrcella had seen but once since she arrived in Winterfell.

The most immediate result for Myrcella in that organised chaos that seemed to dominate was thatshewas quickly left without a proper place in the midst of it. She was a guest, she was the Iron Throne Princess, she was the future queen… none knew exactly _what_ she was except for the fact that she was of high birth and a Lannister. Servants don't know how to act around her, people give her wide berth and hardly anyone spoke to her for more than a few moments but for the Obara, Elia (who was ever by her side these days, refusing to leave her alone and Myrcella had rarely loved her friend better), Sansa whenever she had a moment, and Robb Stark, whenever his council permitted him to leave their chambers. He seemed to have come back from the war only to be lost to endless meetings and council gatherings. It must not be the easiest thing, Myrcella gathered, to organised a kingdom that has not functioned as one for centuries…

Myrcella watched it all from the sidelines, took note of who was who and what purpose the people around her served. She was quick to deconstruct the organisation of Winterfell's household and found herself wondering what courtly life would be like here in the north, where there has not been a court for more than three hundred years. She imagines something scattered, disorganized, at least in the beginning. Structural hierarchies take time to form, she thinks, and knowing the nature of the northerners, the etiquette and flourish of the southwould have no place at all up here. Myrcella did not mind. She knew how to handle it both ways: she was raised in the Red Keep, the most rigidly hierarchic court in all seven kingdoms, and then was removed to Sunspear, where they proceeded to demolish that rigidstructure of thinking brick by carefully laid brick.

Her mother would have despaired (perhaps she even did, who knew). Myrcella had been shocked. Now she was thankful.

She would find her own place. For now all she had to do was take care of herself. She was after all the bride, as Elia was ever so fond of remind her, to the great pleasure of Obara's snickers.

oOo

It was on the third day that two important things happened, one right after the other.

Oberyn Martell came into her room along with Elia, Obara, Ellaria and Nymeria, and they presented her with Doran Martell's gift to her, for her wedding: a dress such as Myrcella had never seen and would probably never see it's like again… and nor would the northerners that would see her in it. _A gown fit for a queen_ , Oberyn said with an amused smile and Myrcella had nodded her thanks. She had known the moment she saw that it that, though the gown was prince Doran's gift, Arianne had had an important hand in having it made. Her taste was as impeccable as it was unmistakable.

But then the Red Viper had done something that had left Myrcella speechless. He had come close to her, taken her face in both his hands and leaned their foreheads together as he wished her clarity in the paths of her life and graced her with the words of blessing of Dornish custom. Myrcella had stood frozen and taken it all in with shock that was directly proportionate to her conviction that Oberyn Martell would never speak to her again after what she had done to him in Riverrun.

She had been wrong apparently.

"I do no blame you at all for my past Myrcella." He said to her as he leaned back and looked at her bewildered face. His smile was so sad that it chirped at her heart. "How could I? You are innocent of the crimes of those before you… and perhaps you were even right not to give in to me."

He had seen the shock in her face at those words and laughed at the blatant way she could not hide it.

"What?" He dared. "I _have_ admitted to being wrong before!"

"Not that I know of, my prince."

Oberyn had shrugged with his usual grace. "Well, the times I am wrong are far few and far in between."

Ellaria's smoky laugh had been a delight (but it could not cover Obara's snort or Nymeria's snicker)

"Oh I would have an interesting answer for that…" Ellaria said as she looked at her loved sideways. Myrcella could not help a chuckle. It was when she caught Elia's eye and saw the gladness there, the happiness, that Myrcella knew without a doubt: Elia had had a hand in this. Who else? Who else could claim the same amount of sway over the Red Viper as her. None, perhaps not even Ellaria herself.

The other interesting development was far more relevant to the Starks than to Myrcella, but she would soon find that she should have in interest in it as well.

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch came to Winterfell, with ten of his black brothers and a Red priestessin tow.

From the window of her room Myrcella had watched Sansa and Arya come running out to greet their wayward brother, and later she saw the king with his half brother (who wore Eddard Stark's face so well that Myrcella had been almost startled the first time she had seen him close), laughing and jesting together, Robb Stark looking happier than he had since she had seen him first in the plains of the westfold. Watching them in one another's company, Myrcella became conscious of what she had so far only sensed intuitively: that they were not accepting her, they simply tolerated her – even Robb Stark, who so far liked her well enough and wanted her even more. Their devotion for each other seemed to Myrcella comparable only with their relentless dedication to keeping her out of it.

But that did not surprise her. She had not expected anything less.

oOo

Myrcella met Jon Snow on the most extraordinary circumstances. She had been introduced to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch when he first came to Winterfell of course, but she had not had the chance to actually _speak_ to the man beside the expected pleasantries, even though she could feel his eyes on herself sometimes, watching her carefully. She did speak to him on a pale morning under an overcast sky. She had woken with dawn and, not her feet had taken her forcibly to the place where some days from that day, she would be made a wife and a queen. She did not like the godswood. It was too dark and too quiet and the stillness seemed to have eyes. It breathed down her neck and Myrcella could not help but feel watched. And that was precisely why she had wondered in there that morning: because she feared it.

The north could not have a queen that feared their holy places. It would not, no matter how much those eyes of blood made her cringe.

So she had entered its silence and stood before the heart tree, looking and not daring to breathe too loud… and not knowing what to do. She refused to leave as soon as she came. She did not know what purpose this was serving, but she knew about poisons and she knew about fear: if you take a few doses of poison for a while you might actually build immunity to some. Fear was the same.

So she stood there and waited for her heart to slow.

When a branch cracked behind her, her hand went to her sleeve and she had her dagger by the handle before she even turned, but did not pull it out. Surprise was the best asset in…

Myrcella straightened. "Your grace! Lord Commander… Good morning."

The two men stood side by side, both tall, though Jon Snow had a couple of inches on Robb Stark and Robb's shoulders were a bit wider than his brother's. They looked so different, but if one wanted to search for signs of their same blood, one might have found them in the shape of their eyes though the colour was different, in that dour expression and the way they held it.

"Princess." The Lord Commander greeted with a nod, stiff as always.

Robb Stark afforded her a smile. "Good morning Myrcella. We did not mean to startle you… or interrupt your solitude."

Myrcella pulled her cloak a little closer to herself. "It nothing. I was out of sorts, that's all."

Robb looked at her as if he saw straight though her words. "You were about to pull a dagger on us weren't you?"

His amusement showed in his smile.

"Of course no." She said then, raising her chin. "I would have pulled the dagger when you least expected it. One of my size has to keep her advantages pretty close to the chest, your grace."

The king laughed easily, and even Jon Snow graced her with a small smile. They had come closer not, standing under the canopy of the heart tree, under its horrific eyes, looking ever at their ease.

They belonged there. She did not. And in that moment Myrcella felt it acutely.

"There is a sept in Winterfell. I was sure that Sansa had told you of it." Robb said quite suddenly, looking from the sacred tree to her uncomfortable self. "I have bene thinking of asking you whether you would like for a smaller ceremony to be held there as well."

Myrcella could not conceal her astonishment.

"Why would I want that?" and her wonder was so transparent that it became obvious she could think of no reason at all for such a thing.

"I imagined… you would want to be married in front of your gods, Myrcella." Robb explained and she felt herself flush for not having understood him immediately.

"Oh… that is…" Myrcella gulped. She was starting to stumble on her words, but she could not help it. She was nervous and this place gave her chills. And that warmth she felt which started on in her bell and unfurled outwards at his words, was making her nervous too. "That is very kind, thank you. But I am honest when I say that the old gods and new are the same to me. …I am grateful that you thought to ask, however." She then added hastily, not wanting to overlook his thoughtfulness when it was so plain before her.

Robb answered her with a smile, but it was the Lord Commander that had questions for her.

"You do not keep to the southern gods, princess?"

"Not exactly." Myrcella answered as lightly as she could. "At least not in any way the Faith of the Seven would consider worthy."

"So you believe in nothing then?" There is an edge of caution in Jon Snow's voice that tells her he would believe it of her, if she speaks the words seriously enough.

"I believe in the gods, I just don't pray to them." Myrcella cleared, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "And I believe in myself more, in my view of the world."

It's a dangerous thing to say, Myrcella knows it: terrible things have happened to women because they thought they could hold their own then again, Myrcella is not most women.

"I believe in my responsibility for my actions, my sins and my own good deeds. I believe in determining my own life, honouring myself and doing my duty." Myrcella looks at Robb Stark and she is fully expecting the surprise she sees. "These are much easier principles to believe in. You don't run the risk of them clashing often, since, as with all rivers leading to the sea, all my principles lead to myself."

Jon Snow seemed to consider her words seriously, before nodding only once, but it was the King's reaction that drew her attention.

"And you're so sure that you'll never compromise yourself?" Robb asked her then, softly, the echo of a strange emotion in his eyes.

Myrcella can see what he means. She can hear it in his voice. She wants to say that its different for kings; that compromise is all a king is about, that she will be different when she is queen because kings and queens do not belong entirely to themselves. They are both more and less than human.

Instead she chooses to say something that will sound not quite so hopeless.

"I have always forbidden myself from compromising my person. But I had a clearer choice, it was a matter of survival: for quite a while, I was all I had."

 _And you're not. You're king._ Sometimes kings can't afford to have principles, especially in war. Robb Stark must have found that out some time during the war of five kings, otherwise he would not have survived it. And it must have hurt him deeply. Merely weeks ago she would have thought this to be her imagination filling the voids of this man, but now Myrcella did not think so. She was building him up piece by piece, as she slowly knew him… even though he was not so easy to piece together. As clear as they were, his eyes hid so much, and sometimes he aid more in silence than in words.

But Myrcella could understand that. She was more or less the same.

oOo

"Does it frighten you?"

The princess looked up to his brother, seemed to contemplate the question and then decided on an answer in a matter of a heartbeat.

"It's not fear, exactly. I just… feel very much a stranger here."

Robb was reminded of his mother, who came from the heart of the south and who still felt like a stranger when she came here, in front of the old gods.

"Our gods must seem cruel and crass to you." Jon said then, and though the princess did not know his brother well enough to tell, Robb knew that the was testing her, getting the feel of who she was. But the words seemed to ring within Myrcella – that sharpening in her eyes, an awakening in her expression, told him that clearly enough - even though she simply shrugged it off.

"All gods are cruel." she deadpanned, her certainty ringing in her tone."The southern ones just dress it up more nicely, with pretty words and vain promises."

Her words made Jon cast him a glance, a look passed between them that lasted for the fraction of a moment but it was enough. The princes was not what Jon had been expecting and even though Robb had warned him of that, his brother was still surprised. Myrcella on the other hand was looking at neither of them, her eyes were fixed on the heart tree and she couldn't take her eyes off it, it seemed. _It must frighten her_ , Robb thought. It had frightened him too as a child, though during the war, the times he could find in the godswood were a respite and became moments he sorely craved.

The time when he felt uneasy among the shadows and deep silences of the godswood were long gone, but for his southern bride-to-be, itmust be different. Roslyn too had always been very uneasy in the godswood. She was devout to her own faith, and prayed often, but the eerie silence and sometimes stifling presence of the woods had unsettled her. Perhaps it was so even with the princess…

"You know, I think I like the old gods better." Myrcella said finally, snapping out of her silence and looking and both Robb and Jon in turn. "They are honest in their nature: they don't disguise their cruelty. I can respect that… If I prayed, would your gods listen to me even though I'm a foreign to their ways and their woods?"

Robb felt his lips pull into a smile. "My father used to tell me that the old gods listen to everyone who kneels before them. You don't have to worry about your prayers falling on the deaf ears of the wind."

Myrcellanodded.

"I think… if I have to pray, I'd rather pray to gods that make no promises."

Robb could have smiled at that – Jon did smile, a true one this time and he knew in that moment that his brother could learn to respect Myrcella for exactly who she was. Jon was like that: he made up his mind about people within moments of meeting them. Robb was that way too: he had to be. But deciding on her had been the hardest thing he'd had to do in a while. To him, she was a complication, not just another person.

"Now if you'll excuse me, your grace, my lord, I shall have to go. At the risk of sounding truly southern, I'm afraid I'm starting to get rather chilly out here."

Robb chuckled, and wordlessly offered her his arm. Just as wordlessly she took it with a small nod and they left the woods, Jon falling to his side as they walked back to the main keep.

oOo

Over the breakfast table, the discussion went on and he found that in the hectic days of their arrival home he had missed the chance of simple speaking to her. So much had to be ready and he had hardly the time to leave his solar – which had turned into a temporary council chambers. But now, as they ate, he found that her enthusiasm was contagious and that she was quite interested in northern ways, and much more informed than he had expected. Robb suspected Dacey and perhaps even the Greatjon and his son were responsible for that.

"How do you pray to your gods? I have never read anything about that anywhere and frankly never thought to ask."

"We pray silently, princess." Jon answered and though he spoke as seriously as ever, the princess caught the joke and her eyes sparkled with humour. He could almost hear her saying in her head ' _as with everything else you do_ '.

"It is the truth, though." Jon continued, more seriously then. "We have no songs or hymns or anything of the like. Everything you have to say is between yourself and the gods."

And as his brother spoke, Robb watched her eyes turn serious, and he could tell that she was listening to every word as if it mattered – she had that strange ability, to look at you as if she would remember every word. In all likehood, she probably would too. Myrcella focused on things with intent; there was no idleness in her, no matter how many pains she took to appear simple. Jon was not used to her concentration, Robb realized. It was disconcerting him a little. It had had the same effect on Robb as well, but he got used to it.

"It's simpler than the seven, and less alluring I imagine." Jonconcluded, smiling at the princess as if it was a joke between them.

And when Myrcella nodded, Robb knew that she would start going to the godswood more frequently. He knew that it frightened her, and that was how he knew she would go back there if only for that reason. Besides, Myrcella seemed to him like someone who would go a long way to achieve something and it was not farfetched to think her kneeling here, embracing the old faith, for the sake of finding a better place with his people.

But Robb didn't want that. Who men worshiped was between them and their hearts and no concern of any other, not even kings.

"The glamour and pomp of the Faith is designed to attract the eye and yes it does, but its purpose has nothing to do with religion at all." Robb heard Myrcella say. "I am not negating the existence of true believers: a man's heart is his own. But history has proved that The Faith itself is an institution, and its rigid hierarchy a tool of social convenience."

Robb frowned at that. She sounded so certain and even a little disapproving as she spoke. And though she went back to taking bits of breakfast as if she had not said anything of much importance, Robb did not wish to ignore this.

"So you think that the reason behind the wars with the Faith is not a cruel and unjust sovereign, but greedy men in septon robes?" he asked, already leaning forward a little. And if he noticed that there were others paying attention to their discussion she hall filled, he did not pay them any mind. It was to Myrcella he was speaking.

"I don't presume to judge the reasons behind a war. There has never been a war where injustice and evil belonged only to one side, I think." she paused, for only a heartbeat, but Robb knew that she regretted that last statement. She looked into his eyes then as if she was measuring him, wondering if he would speak of the war that had just a month ago ended. When he did not, she acknowledged his silence with a smile that was visible only in her eyes.

"What I was commenting on was how troublesome multiple fealties can be, for the people and for the king who rules them." She added then, and with every word, Robb got to think of something he had never considered before. Nobody dared interrupt them."The formal rituals of the Faith of the Seven force the creation of a hierarchy, a structure. It creates another state within the state: you swear fealty to the king and your beliefs to your gods, which are conveniently represented by men. What is one to do, when one clashes with the other?"

"Holy men." Robb specified, knowing exactly what her point was but wanting to know just how well she would be able to make it. How deeply could she understand it.

The princess rolled her eyes at him. Robb almost laughed.

"Men all the same, your grace. And for most men, once they taste power, all they want is more power."

There was a certain bluntness about her declaration. A sort of recklessness about her honestly, one that dared him to call her on it. Had they been alone he would have teased her for it. _'Are you certain you're all Lannister, Myrcella?_ '. But considering the people that were now listening to them, they would not take it as an innocent jape but as a provocation and Robb did not want to make her feel mocked.

"Regardless, this seems to be a question you'll never have to canted with." Myrcella said then, and this time was bright and amused. "It simplifies things a great deal not to have people about who claim they speak for the gods."

Robb found himself smiling back.

"There are actually – those who speak for the old gods, I mean." Her confusion pulled her brows together a tiny fraction and Robb went on. "Old Nan called them the Children of the Forest. They were the ones that carved the faces on the weirwoods, so that the old gods could see us and hear us."

The princess' eyes sparkled with amusement. "I have read about them. When we were children, Tommen and I used to play in the Red Keep's gardens, pretending we were the Children of the Forest. He used to make crowns of leaves and flowers for me, but they always fell apart."

She looked at him with eyes that shone of true fondness, and he was yet again reminded of how much it softened her face, how much more it sweetened her beauty. Where she grew sharp-edged whenever Joffrey was mentioned, she almost melted for her other brother, whose very name brought tenderness in her eyes.

He did not remember, afterwards, of what exactly they had spoken during their meal. But he did remember that she had laughed with him and that he had felt lighter and more careless than he had in days, forgetting all about the many troubles that assaulted him from odd angles. He remembered that whoever had broken their fast with them that morning could not stop glancing at them together and that he knew it to be a good thing, that they should all be used to it. He would perhaps explain to Myrcella one day that she had not been introduced to Winterfell the first day they had come, but rather that very morning, when she was seen as something more than a beautiful foreign woman about to marry their King.

In Robb's opinion Myrcella's introduction to the halls of Winterfell could not have been done better if he had planned for it.

oOo

Returning to Winterfell for a wedding had never been among the ways Jon had imagined he would get to come back to that ancient seat. He had, around the years, come back to his old home twice, but never stayed more than for a passing night. He did not want to it had been too painful. The castle looked as dead as in his nightmares without his family in it. Now his family was there, ever different and always the same in so many ways. Robb, Arya, Rickon and even Sansa… Nothing could have prepared him for what seeing them againhad felt like. What it had been to embrace Arya again, still skinny and wild, but taller and so very beautiful now. What it had felt when he had seen Sansa's face, seeing in her who she was and who she had become, someone completely new. Or what he had felt when she took his hand and called him brother, same as Arya had…

Jon knew that she had been told. Robb said so and they had even sat down one evening and spoken of it – the truth of his parentage and all that came with it. And yet she still called him brother and so did Arya and Rickon. So did Robb for that matter.

It tore at his heart really, just how much he loved them all. In the years they had spent apart, they had all found themselves, and so had Jon: his place and his purpose were at the Wall, but in his family – there he found his reasons. His sisters, their love (he could hardly believe it still) his brothers. He had been spending every spare minute with them as the wedding approached. Neither Arya nor Sansa would leave him a moment in idleness and Jon found that he was far from minding it.

The wedding…

A Lannister as Queen of Winter. It sounded preposterous but it was true. And a part of Jon still found it ironic that the little girl who had once come to Winterfell and looked at Robb with stars in her eyes, the girl he had found so insipid, was now that young woman he had met, who would be his brother's wife, who would become a queen.

She did not remind him of that little girl. She reminded him of Cersei Lannister more. But she was more open and perhaps even more beautiful than her mother had been, despite that scarred cheek. Tall and slender as a willow, straight as a spear, she was everything striking. Myrcella Baratheon was young yet, and sweet as well whenever she deigned to laugh and smile. Jon could see it the promise in her though, how she would grow into a frightening beauty one day, when she grew into a woman and left the girl behind. Her manner was easy and charming, her wit was quick and her mind quicker. Robb was taken with her, that much was plain for all to see and she liked him as well. This did not please all the same way, Jon had noticed this that day in the hall, when the betrothed couple had been discussing religion and whatever else the princess was curious to know. They drew such looks that one might have thought them a strange oddity, when in face they were days away from being married.

They were and oddity too, of course. But only if one chose to be superficial.

The princess for her part was reserved, was pleasant enough company and soon Jon found himself liking her well enough to feel at his ease in her presence. There was something about her that felt known, as if she reminded him of someone else. Something about her humour and its edges, about her looks and her teases. It did not take long to recall why: she reminded Jon of the Imp's company, of his sharp tongue, careless japes and free laugh.

Her easy manner shocked him one day, when they had been breaking fast together: the two earliest rises of Winterfell, aside from the servants. She had been the one to invite him to her table.

"Please join me, Lord Snow. It's so depressing to eat alone."

And then Lady Catelyn had passed by the hall, and doused him (and the princess too) in a frigid look, before she strode away. It had been when Lady Catelyn was well away out of hearing range, that the princess had started to chuckle.

"You know, I quite like your company, Jon Sow." She said, though he could see from the look in her eyes that she would say something more. The imp had had the same look in his eyes when he made japes at Jon's expense. "Somehow it makes me feel better to know that there are other people in this world that lady Stark dislikes with the same passion she reserves for myself."

He'd almost choked at the way she so easily talked of a subject that all the Winterfell household had managed to ignore all his life. It put him in a rather tight spot for a moment, until he remembered that he was no longer a boy. After that, Jon couldn't help the smile, even though there was nothing funny about it. He'd felt so… so many things over that particular dislike, growing up.

"There's really something to be said about misery enjoying company, isn't there." The princess said lightly.

Jon finally gave in and chuckled with her. It wasn't funny no, but she had managed to make it sound so. And truth be told... it really was a revelation to see the way lady Stark's face cooled whenever she looked too long at the princess. He did not enjoy it, but it did make him feel less displaced. He didn't ache much for Lady Caitlyn'sacceptance now and he doubted the princes did either. For his part, as Jon grew up and became a little more his own man, he learned to be grateful that lady Stark, though not a mother to him, had not been unkind. She was cold, yes, but had never mistreated him, never abused him. Never urged her husband against him - though perhaps that would have caused her more trouble for herself than for Jon...

He'd could have given the princess some words of comfort, perhaps advice… but he didn't feel he had that liberty, and upon better scrutiny of the princess, Jon realized soon enough that she really didn't need that much help anyway.

In the end it was for the best that he did not speak, for only moments later, Lady Stark was upon them, and though she nodded her greeting to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, for the princess she reserved nothing but a cold look down her sharp nose, and an outstretched hand with an open missing in it.

The princess turned an unaffected smile towards the Lady and bid her good morning as if she did not care at all for the tension between them.

"I must ask Lady Stark," The princess added as she took the message from the Lady's hand. "Will there ever come a time when letters addressed to me will find my person _before_ they grace your eyes?"

Jon almost choked on his water and was forced to swallow quite painfully and try not to cough out a lung. Say what you will about him being a man grown – which he was – but the side glares of Lady Stark still sent something inside him cowering. Perhaps that was the boy in him living yet. Jon scoffed internally. Even if that boy had been dead and gone for many, many moons, Lady Stark was such a woman that could bring him back just to make him cower. The fact didn't make him feel so bad as it should – he'd seen it happen to many men hardier than himself.

And yet there she was, the golden princess of the Red Keep: she had the gall to smile almost shamelessly in the face of Lady Starks' austere looks, as if the matter of her non-existent privacy amused her truly and she was teasing an old friend. The truly funny part was that there was no mocking in the princess tone, nothing disparaging. She sounded _honestlyamused_!

The frigid look Lady stark send the princess could make the Wall feel like a hotspring…and yet the princess smiled without a care in the world.

_Lannisters…_

"All messengers and letters that come and go through Winterfell pass through my eyes or my son's, Princess." And that was that. Jon almost winced at the finality in lady Stark's tone. Had it been him, he wouldn't have bowed his head and left. _Damnation_ , had it been him, he probably wouldn't have said anything at all (though he doubted his mail would ever be so closely supervised as the princess' was. And perhaps with good reason). But the princess shrugged, blithely cheerful.

It was insulting really, how much she disregarded the Lady's frigidity… and of course, that was quite shamelessly the point.

_Blasted impudence! Was she deliberately trying to win Lady Stark's displeasure?!_

"Of course. Far be it from me to question your ways." The princess answered, utterly carelessly. Lady Stark raised one eyebrow at her and Jon almost cringed.

"Old strife and misgivings are slow to shift, Princess. You should know that better than anyone." Lady start said between tight lips. "Generally people dislike change."

The little smile that she sported was a bitter expression, one that Jon was not too familiar with. Lady Stark had always been a hard woman when she needed to be, and shrewd, but never bitter. War had changed her… same as it had changed all of them. Jon immediately felt the bite of shame. She should not be so quick to judge. They had all suffered.

Unfortunately for Lady Stark, the Lannister princess was not so lenient as Jon.

"That is true my Lady, but mercifully, very few of them dislike it as much as you do[3]. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't mind." The princess was quick to cheerfullyclarify, even though her eyes were stone cold. "I think you'll enjoy my uncle's letters – he has a true flair for the descriptive."

This time Jon did choke, though if it was because of indignation at her nerve, or the laughter it provoked in him and got caught in his throat, he didn't know.

Gods, he'd almost inhaled his piece of bread…

"Everything alright Lord Commander?"

Jon glared at the princess for her cheek as much as he could, though he still took the cup she offered and found that, thank the gods, it was water, or else his eyes would have burned right out of his sockets. He knew that with his red face and scrunched up lips, he didn't make for much of imposing figure, which probably explained why she was still smiling like a silly girl ( _she's six and ten Jon_ , Sansa's voice gently reminded him), pretending she was unaware of what she was doing.

Jon straightened in his chair and took a gulp of clean air. Thankfully, lady Stark had already left the hall entirely.

"Are you purposefully trying to make her dislike you even more?" He asked softly, almost whispering. After this bout of silliness, he felt he had enough confidence with this girl to ask her such a candid question.

"I'm not sure how that's possible." The princes noted and Jon saw, with a twinge of guilt, that her good humour had evaporated like it had never been there, and her eyes were the poorer for it. She looked much more alive when she was happy… or when she pretended to be.

It occurred to him all too late that perhaps she found very little occasions for laughter aroundWinterfell.

"Well, it won't be made easier if you quip and jape in her face." Jon pointed out, knowing he was simply repeating something she already knew.

"Huh, perhaps you're right. Her sidelong glares could curdle milk for sure, they'd give my mother's a run for gold."

Inside him, the child he had been was shocked.

" _Don't_ say that." he said softly, imaging - shuddering - at the thought of what his father would say if he could hear her.

The princess frowned at him even as she smiled. "A jape, Jon Snow. Gods, don't tell me your sense of humour froze at the Wall."

Jon allowed himself smile, wondering when exactly between now and twenty minutes ago had he acquired such an ease with this princess. "I don't know. I'm not sure I ever had one."

And that at least brought a smile on her face. That was better. She looked much less like her mother when she smiled.

"I had hoped that she would eventually tire of keeping me in such poor graces for my face and name alone. Hatred, or even distain, without a sound base for its existence is a terrible waste of one's energy, I have found."

Jon looked up from his plate and into her eyes. Yes, she was asking him, though it did not sound that way. But Jon knew better: the question was sin her eyes. And what was he supposed to tell her? Why ask _him_? But the answer to that was so self-evident it almost slapped him around the face.

_Come on, Jon you've been the resident bastard of Winterfell your whole life. Did Catelyn Tully Stark ever warm up to you even an inch?_

He didn't say anything, but from the way her face fell into immediate understanding, there must have been something telling in his expression. Jon knew that she knew his answer, though he had not spoken a word. Perhaps his silence had been enough.

The princess leaned back on her hair, abandoning her porridge altogether. After a moment, she shook her head and shrugged.

"You know, there's this saying in Dorne: If a problem can be solved there is no use worrying about it. If it can't be solved, worrying will do no good[4]."

Jon found himself chuckling. "Life must be easier in Dorne."

The throaty laughter that burst out of her was shockingly warm. It eased him, that she was capable of it.

"Oh, Dornish summer there can kill as easily as winter kills here, so no, life is not that much easier in Dorne. But it's a common jape among soothsayers, what I just told you. I think I should start practicing that philosophy where Lady Stark is concerned though."

Jon didn't say anything one way or the other, but the lopsided smile he hid behind his spoon must have been as telling as his smile previously.

oOo

_"They would have no claim on me if I did not desire it, for I am solely my own: half flowering creation, half blistering hellfire…"_

_'Persephone speaks' by A.C._

The day before the wedding, Robb found himself knocking on the princess' door early in the morning. She appeared to him fully dressed and he gave her a smile as he bid her good morning. She smiled back, in a tentative way, with a touch of shyness – a smile he had never seen her give to anyone but himself… and that he had not seen ever since that night northwest of Moat Cailin, in that dark corridor where they had kissed. Yet despite his better inclination or what he might feel every time he saw her, this moment then and there, with him at her door, was the only one they had had for themselves ever since they left that dim corridor.

She looked at him as if she was thinking exactly the same thing… but not even now was a time for kisses. Robb perhaps resented it, but he knew that he had something for her which she might want more.

"Would you come with my, Myrcella. I have something to show you." He had told her, and offered her his hand, which she had taken with and intrigued smile. She may not like surprises, but she had yet to deny him anything.

The shiver that had passed through her when she saw her Imp uncle waiting for her was something Robb had not expected. She looked astounded for the total of a single moment, her breath came broken through her lips, surprise robbing her of her usual composure… and then the smile had lit up her face as she let go of his hand and practically ran to her uncle. She had to get down to her knees to hug the little man properly, something that she did without a single moment of pause, and held him long and tightly.

Robb had not expected that reaction. She seemed always so reserved, the picture of poise even when she was angry. Except for when she escaped the castle to ride around the moors of Winterfell, he had never seen a single hair out of place in that golden head of hers and sometimes her outburst still surprised him. But seeing her that morning, noticing the edge of desperation in her look, in her words as she spoke to her Imp uncle under her breath… it had gotten him thinking…

Had she been lonely? Had she felt so miserable that even her deformed uncle could sway such strong emotions just because he was her family? Or maybe it had been worry that gave way to such a reaction, relief over seeing him alive and well, even though exhausted from the gruelling road. The truth was Robb did not know. It could be a thousand things. Where her family was concerned, the princess was ever tight-lipped, even with him.

Hours later, Robb was in solar surrounded by his brothers and sisters, and yet he could not seem to get rid of that suspicion on the back of his mind, the edging restlessness. He did not like having the Imp in Winterfell – his mother liked it even less (she still had not forgiven him for admitting the 'the foul creature' in her home). And though Robb was not so passionate on the matter, he was of the same basic sentiment. He did not like it one bit that Myrcella cared for that half man so deeply either, and he especially did not like that look full of surprise and then sharp _suspicion_ that the Imp had thrown him over Myrcella's shoulder, as if Robb was the cause for the princess so emotional reaction to finally seeing a familiar face; as if he had treated her ill, being a jailor and not her betrothed.

Robb was both of course, but he was not acting like it! Not once had he treated her like his captive. It was hard to even think of her that way; at his worst, Robb had thought her as a complication he had been vexed to deal with, yes, but never as his prisoner.

"It keeps bothering you, doesn't it?" Sansa asked him, interrupting his thoughts.

Her brother looked up from the fire and into her eyes. She read the answer there – he did not need to say a word.

"She has always loved him, Robb." Sansa said, hoping that her words at least could smooth away some of his worry. "Even before Dorne, when she was a child."

Robb felt irritation prickle at him.

"She's only ever shown care for her little brother." He said, thinking over her behaviour, and what it might mean. Why was this still bothering him – he so wished it would not. "I have gotten the impression that she never had the smoothest course with the rest of her family."

Sansa tilted her head and gave Robb a faint smile, one of those that he did not know so well as he might have liked.

"You know, Lord Tyrion was actually one of the very few people that tried to protect me when I was in the Red Keep. I remember once - it was a while ago - there was a riot in the streets of Fleebottom because Joffrey provoked the crowd." Sansa chuckled a little to herself. "They say Tyrion was enraged. He slapped Joffrey and kicked him and called him a vile, vicious, cruel boy."

Robb couldn't help the little incredulous laugh that escaped him and neither could Arya.

Sansa joined them soon enough."It must have been quite a sight. I am grievous to have missed it, though the castle buzzed about it for days."

"Missed it? Where were you?" Jon immediately asked

Sansa shrugged carelessly. "Dealing with my own problems, so to speak. But no matter; what I wanted to say is that the only people Myrcella treated as family back in the Red Keep was prince Tommen, and the Imp." His sister threw him an amused look through her lashes before she got back to her embroidering.

"It enraged the queen so, you have no idea. She has always despised her younger brother. She went so far as to try having him killed once or twice. And yet her golden daughter, who rebuffed her left and right, had nothing but the most honest, simplest care for her Imp uncle. She showered him with the very same affection that Myrcella so steadily denied her mother… and for which Cersei was ever hungrier for."

Robb felt questions gathering behind his lips but he held them. Jon seemed confused and Arya bored – but they too were keeping their silence. It was always wiser to listen whenever Sansa was concerned: she knew things, things about people and places and secrets seemed to swirl behind her eyes, like water down a well.

"At first I thought she was doing it on purpose to irritate Cersei and Tywin, but that theory fell through soon enough. Myrcella's affection for her uncle is as simple as it used to be when she was a child; as sincere as my love for you is." Sansa raised her eyes from her embroidery and pinned Robb with the seriousness in them. "And what you also need to understand is that that is precisely the key to Tyrion's unwavering loyalty to her. It seems cruel, but it's the truth: the only price one needs to pay for the Imp's loyalty is a bit of well-earned respect. And Myrcella and Tommen have always freely given him what he has always wanted and never had: the affection of family.… _That_ is why he is here, why he looks at you with such suspicion and why he regards us with distrust: worry for his niece, and nothing more."

Sansa's eyes lifted to him, and pinned him down with that certainty of knowledge that made her gaze at times unsettling. "Do you understand me, brother?"

"I understand that whatever selfless deed the Imp may have done was motivate by the selfish desire to be acknowledged." Robb said calmly. He had seen that strange altruism in the Imp when he gifted Bran his modified saddle for his brothers limp legs. Robb was not likely to forget that - not because of the Imp, but because of the smile he put on Bran's face. The very first smile since he fell.

Sansa's only response was a small smile and a shrug. "Yes perhaps. But how do you judge a man: by his motives or his deeds?"

"Both." Robb replied immediately, and it was not rashness that made him say it, but experience.

Sansa nodded. "Yes, it's safer if you take both into account. But Tyrion's love for his niece is no longer born out of 'selfish desire to be acknowledged', as you put it. They share more than the rest of their family ever will …and they see each other as similar, I think: they are both two lonely broken things."

Robb straightened in his chair. He remembered well the Imp's words, remembered them as if he'd heard them yesterday.

_…cripples, bastards and broken things…_

Robb had thought it a cruel jape at the time. Now perhaps he was starting to think on it differently. It wasn't so farfetched after all, to see how even the Imp would see himself as something broken and discarded. But Myrcella… she was so fiercely whole, so unblemished and well put-together. What could she possibly have that would liken her to her ill-made uncle? Robb struggled a little with that. He simply couldn't see her as this 'broken' creature Sansa was painting. But perhaps she did see herself that way… though from looking to her and speaking to her, and being in her presence, one would never know.

"Besides, I don't think we should be the ones to speak of foolish things done for family." Sansa said then, almost carelessly, but her eyes were on Jon and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Arya on the other hand was not so careful about her reactions.

"Oh right. Almost forgot about that one." Though the deadpan sarcasm in her tone was an immediate giveaway.

Jon gave his sisters a small smile. Neither of them bulged however. They had yet to speak of this. They had spoken of many other things… secret, dangerous things, and yet not of this.

"You almost got killed trying to come to me, didn't you? They stabbed you because you forgot your brothers and wanted to save your sister?"

Arya's words were harsh, her eyes fierce. Her long face was familiar then, those lips pulled back almost as if in a snarl… he could almost hear it, until there was no 'almost' to it at all – Nymeria was doing the real snarling, it tumbled across the room like low thunder, reacting to her human's emotions.

"Do you know what I would have done Jon? If it had been true that the Bolton Bastard had caught me and planned to marry me?" Jon did not want to know, but did not look like she was about to stop, not for him nor anyone. "I would have played nice and easy, I would have screamed and cried and begged… and then, the second gave me the smallest opening… I would have ripped his throat open with my teeth. I would have killed him stone dead, believe it."

Jon felt his heart beat against his chest like a war drum.

He did believe it. And yet…

Gods, thinking about it with Arya there before his eyes, feral and wild and beautiful, was ever worse. He did not doubt her words, not even for a second. Arya would have taken one look at the Bastard Bolton, and decided which was the best way to kill him… and yes, she would have ripped his throat with teeth and nails and a fork or a chicken-bone if she had to. Jon didn't doubt it. But it still hurt. It hurt like a fucking open wound, and the worst was that he couldn't bring himself to regret his choice, even knowing that it had cost him his life and his honour and his duty. It had been Melisandre's doing that he was still alive, no matter hw much the Red Woman babble about fires and prophecies, dragons and fire and blood. It was a trick. Magic. Jon tried hard not to think it as black magic because he would not be able to stand the feel of his own skin if it were so… even though Melisandre herself denied it all and said that it was the magic in his own blood that had awakened him from death. A true dragon, she said, of the blood of old valyria, found rebirth in flames.

All nonsense, all of it, especially when faced with Arya's long face and angry eyes…

Jon knew he would do it again to save her. The only difference was that this time he would be smarter about it and try not to get stabbed in the back.

"Sansa would have done the same if they'd wed her to Joffrey I bet." Arya said then as if it was a challenge, and Sansa gave a snort.

"No I would not." was the immediate response. Calm. Sure.

Jon turned to her, to that little smile on her lips, her sweet familiar face and the delicate lines that made her face so beautiful and famliar, to the ivory sheen of her skin, pale as snow. She looked frail enough to break at the hardiest brush and yet her eyes burned ice-blue and as feral as Arya's when she looked at her sister and spoke.

"I would have waited until I got with child, of course." She said calmly, as if it was something Arya should have thought of. "And if it had been a boy, I would have waited until I had another child, so that I wouldn't be the first one to be suspected."

There was a glint in Sansa's eyes that was quieter than Arya's but just as violent. Sansa had always been so contained in all things… was it really a surprise that she was restrained and careful and calculated in her ruthlessness as well? Because that's what it was of course; her pretty face didn't change the nature of those emotions in her eyes.

"I would have gotten rid of Cersei first. She's the most dangerous one: vicious and stupid is not such a good combination." Sansa's smile toed the line between amusement and malice as she considered ideas. "A nice marriage to the knight of flowers might have done it right. They would have both found a deep, singular misery[5] in their union."

Nobody dared speak to interrupt her. It was as if she had enchanted the room. Jon was the first to admit he found strange fascinations in the workings of the mind of this woman who looked like the sister he used to have, but spoke and acted nothing like her.

"Then Joffrey would have gone hunting and a terrible acceded would befall him. Such a shame. So young. I would have liked to make Joffrey's death slow though. Slow and painful. A boar would have been too ironic… I would have needed lots of whiteness for that."

Jon was frozen watching her. The flames danced in her hair, in her blue eyes. His heart beat faster now, but for different reasons. Was it really so wrong of her to wish them dead? Wish them dead violently even. Jon himself would have killed them with his own hands, all Lannisters, torn their house down root and stem, such had been his rage at times. And yet his sweet sister was sitting there, dainty as you like, contemplating murder so carefully that Jon knew she'd planned it long and meticulously for a while. This was no spur of the moment idea. If Robb had not won the war, if the unthinkable had truly happened... Jon had no doubt that Sansa would have obliterated them all. Perhaps not immediately, but soon enough. Or she would have died trying.

"Wow, you've really thought that one through huh?" Anya asks, light, natural. Like they are speaking of the weather, not of murder.

Sansa's shrug is absentminded. "I had to do something with my time didn't I?"

Arya was smiling with all her teeth showing.

 _My sisters,_ Jon thought as he looked at them, _the she-wolves of Winterfell._

He could not fault them for it. He knew it did not diminish their goodness, just as he knew that they were children of winter and war. There was a reason that the Kings of the North were called the Kings of Winter and, thought it might amuse the south, it was not because of the weather. Ned Stark had raised them to be honourable men and women, and yet…

 _Would he be disappointed_ , Jon asked himself, _to see what has become of us: I, an oath breaker, my brother a Winter King whose name makes half the continent tremble, a sister who is most comfortable in darkness and another than can play half the country for fools and do it with a sweet smile_. They were the wolves of the north and they had brought peace to their realm, but what was the cost, he wondered? In the north a lie was only morally admissible if you had been lied to, if a bargain had been broken, if you were betrayed first. But then, once the chips went down, Jon thought, all rules were off. And the chips had gone down several times for the Stark children. Would their father think these things excuses?

Ned Stark had been raised in the Vale, Jon reminded himself. He had been raised to live higher than honour. And he had raised his children on that way as well.

But Ned Stark was also the man that held the sword and took his men's heads once he passed judgment. He was the man that would have taken Theon's head without pause if the Iron Islanders had rebelled. The same man that had waged war against one mad king and would have risen against another.

The north remembers. And the north is ruthless.

_And we are the wolves of winter._

Perhaps Ned stark, their father, Jon's _only_ father, would be disappointed. _I'll ask him when I see him again_ , he told himself. As for Jon, he was not disappointed in his sisters or his brothers: he was proud of them. In himself... that was another matter.

oOo

Nymeria is kind enough to prepare her bath, adding the scented oils in the water. Incense burns in the corners of her room and fills the air, and Elia blows the scented smoke into Myrcella's drying hair. Obara has rubbed them with neroli oil, which is why her curls yield to waves of softness, all the way down to her back. They help her rub creamy flower-petals on her skin and it becomes so soft even Myrcella wonders at it, and takes a fine golden sheen as if she has bathe on sunlight. They put pastes on her face and willow bark on her eyes to take away the weariness of a sleepless night.

Myrcella takes it in as if in displacement. She moves and she speaks but she feels six inches behind her own body.

Elia keeps speaking to her softly, her tone so gentle, her voice so warm. It's a comfort. Obara looks at her intently as she paints her hands, her fingers and Nymeria her feet. They design, in tiny dots, the symbol of peace on her skin, of fortune and prosperity. Once she is dry, Elia and Nymeria her into the dress Arianne has made for her and its heavier than it looks: the inner layers are of wool and warm velvet, to keep her warm, and then silk over sheer silk and when Myrcella runs a hand over the fabric, it flows like water over her fingers. And it shiners with the silver shine of white pearls.

Myrcella had almost laughed. She was supposed to wear gold and black – they were the Baratheon colours. Pale gold was the gown that uncle Tyrion had brought with him for her and it was beautiful. But Baratheon was not her house. And Lannister was not her house either. As the thought connected, Arianne's playful voice came to her ear: _wear what makes you into what you want to be seen. Wear your image. Wear yourself on your sleeve… and white has always made you look so pure…_

That beautiful gown was a private jape.

Myrcella loved it for exactly that.

And because it did make her look ever so pure. She looked at chaste as a freshly-bloomed lily as she stared in the mirror, even though the dress was completely off the shoulders, exposing her throat and her frail collarbones and the tantalizing roundness of her shoulders, the hint of her breasts. It clung to her faithfully all the way to her hips where the waves flared freely down, and moved with her like smoke, shimmering like water.

It really was a striking gown…

The numbness breaks only when Myrcella turns and looks at her maiden cloak on top of her bed, a drape of silken that catches the light as if it really was gold made fabric, and the crowned black stag embroidered on the silk with careful stitches. There are other motifs dancing around the hemline, delicate and beautiful: crowns and antlers intertwining. On the inside the cloak is layered with fur, her mother's thought no doubt, against the cold. Thinking of her mother shocks Myrcella into her own body and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. She wishes her mother were here, no matter how terrible Cersei's presence at this wedding would be – not politically but in itself: her mother would have made her wedding _to anyone_ a nightmare (let alone to one such as Robb Stark, king r not) because had it been in her mother's hands, Myrcella would have never married anyone, or maybe married and stayed in the Red Keep. Selfishly, as she ponders this, Myrcella wishes she had a different mother, a different family. A different life.

But most of all, she wishes she was not still stupid enough to ever think about wishing for anything. The cold stone floor was still firm beneath her feet, her head still attached to her neck. She had her life – a pleasure denied to many. She would take charge of this life and not long for another that would never belong to her.

And wasting thoughts on something as stupid as a maiden cloak was something she had had no time for a long time ago, let alone now. This is a _royal_ wedding, and appearances, like all lies, are as good as the show that keeps them up: they _demand_ to be kept. The twist of irony is that, up here, pretty words freeze on people's mouths before they ever make it out. They will all know that it's a lie and none will appreciate being lied to. It would have been the same anywhere. Up here the reaction will just be harsher.

She expects it.

She stops caring the moment she turns her back on that cloak and closes the door behind her.

oOo

The knock on the door is sharp and sounds twice, and Tyrion knows who it is before she comes in. He has a retort ready, his smirk in in place, but then he sees her and the smile freezes on his face before falling to astonishment.

…He doubts he has ever seen anyone that arrested him more than this. And so severe is the look on her face in that moment that it does away with her sweetness, and she looks fierce and terrible in her beauty.

 _Violence of action._ He has always liked that expression. It means to move quickly and violently in order to leave your enemies scattered, leaderless and unable to defend themselves from the onslaught. It was the expression Myrcella brought to mind, as Tyrion looks at her.

A sight to stop any heart.

But she is upset.

"I am ready, uncle." She says drily. The golden cloak of house Baratheon is in her hands, and her bare shoulders invite the eye – she is a play of contrasts. Sharp white dress, shimmering in pearly and silver hues as it catches the light, darkened skin kissed by the sun, vivid gold in her unbound hair…

Oh yes, Robb Stark is definitely getting the better end of this deal.

"I can see that, niece. You look…" but then Tyrion smiled, and gave her an forbearing look. "I'm sure you know you will be the most beautiful woman out there today."

His niece rolled her eyes. "I am the most beautiful woman in most rooms every day, uncle. But perhaps you're forgetting Lady Sansa, or her sister, or the dark northern beauties that shall be attending."

It was Tyrion's turn to huff.

"Dark northern beauties are common up here. And Lady Sansa, though lovely, is not the one getting married today. Nor the one about to be queen."

 _Or wearing gowns like that one you are wearing:_ a chaste provocation, almost absentminded. Tyrion knew better than to believe it. Nothing Myrcella ever did was without purpose.

"Before we go though, I have something for you." And he directed her gaze to the large wooden box on his bed. "Go on, open it."

Myrcella looked at him and then stepped forward, lifting the ornate lid. Jewels of every kind greeted her eyes and even for one such as her who was used to riches and ridiculous fashions, what she saw there was worth a pause.

"It is your wedding present… from Tywin Lannister."

Her eyes snapped to his face, frown already in place. She knew better than to take gifts from men such as his father and Tyrion could almost laugh at it: at how clearly she saw some things and missed others.

"They were the jewels of the Lady of Casterly Rock. My mother's." Tyrion added softly. "She had them made after her own taste, I was told, and they were all she ever wore." And it seemed almost surreal in a way. Their father had never spared any king of expense for anything, Cersei had had the best necklaces, bracelets, coronets, of the most precious stones made forged from the best smiths of the Rock… but this box had been sealed away when Joanna Lannister had died and it had never been touched; not when Cersei came of age, not even when she married. Every single piece was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, elegant and tasteful - as everyone said his other had been. All in all, that box contained enough riches to buy Myrcella a small fleet if she so wished: gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, stones he'd never heard of in settings of every kind, fit for royalty – which Myrcella was and ever would be.

Myrcella touched one of the rings: multiple circlets made to appear as if she was wearing not one ring but five, and which would cover half her finger.

"This is a dornish design." And her questioning eyes went to her uncle's, questioning. "There are other pieces here that I have only ever seen in Dorne: head circlets, and snake bracelets…" Things that in the fashion of the westerlands were considered outlandish, no doubt.

Tyrion shrugged. "My mother served as a lady in waiting for queen Rhaella, along with the ruling princess of Dorne at the time – Oberyn's mother. They were said to have been good friends. Perhaps they exchanged gifts."

"Perhaps…" Myrcella echoed, fingering a silver necklace with pale stones set in the middle of it. "They are beautiful."

"They are. And they are yours." Tyrion thought about it and then decided to say it out loud. "Perhaps you don't realize, because you don't know my father that well, Myrcella, but this is particular gift means he has great plans for you." And a particular regard as well, but that Tyrion did not say. She would not believe it.

His niece snorted. "Oh, you mean he expects me to breed in exactly nine months from this day?"

Tyrion bit back a chuckle. Her unaffected tone somehow made the thing more funny even though it was really not.

"Something like that, yes."

"For someone so intent on discreetness, your father sure known how to tell people to get fucked."

This time Tyrion didn't bother to even hide his laugh, though it was bitter.

"Oh he has a talent for it, believe me." And though he was sure that Tywin's plans on Myrcella was great indeed, Tyrion did not know them and could not guess. But he was sure that it would involve bringing the North back into the fold. How his father planned to do that, Tyrion did not know. He did not even know if it were possible anymore… but with his father one could never know.

Myrcella signed deeply and set on the bed heavily then, as if her strings had been cut. Her shoulders slumped and her hand went to rest on her stomach, as if she was afraid it was going to fall out.

"I don't know what's the matter with me. I feel so foolish."

Tyrion gave her a small smile as he took her hand. "You're nervous. It's quite a common affliction among brides, I hear."

But his niece only rolled her eyes at him.

Yesterday, when she had come into the room he had been put to wait for her, and seen him… Tyrion had almost been frightened by the shock and joy and sheer desperation he had seen on her face before she came to embrace him tightly enough to make him feel his own bones. He had read unhappiness in reaction and he had known who to blame for it – though the Winter King had seemed as shocked as Tyrion had been by her reaction.

He had told her all he could of the battle, of Tommen and Jamie and himself… or her mother and Joffrey too though she had not asked. She had not demanded why Jamie had broken his promise to come to her wedding. She had not even addressed her own words, dismissing them as foolish the moment he tried to remind her of them and saying she was glad that Jamie was not there. The Kingslayer in Winterfell, when he had just been released form captivity. What had she been thinking?!

All excuses.

Myrcella sighed deeply and turned to look at him for long moments, a gentle smile softening her face.

"Have you ever noticed uncle, that we have the same eyes."

Tyrion felt a small bit of tension settle between his shoulders. Her eyes were wide and bright and shaped for wonder, perfect, and now darkened ever so slightly, just about enough so that nobody would miss the violently green shade of them – a colour such as none in their family that Tyrion had ever seen. His were black and green, gateways to the seven hells some said.

"Look at us. The shape of our eyes is exactly the same." She insists again, gently, locking her eyes with his.

"I know." Tyrion admitted softly. He had been aware of that for a very long time though, and it shocked him none the less that she had noticed it too, that she was admitting it so carelessly, as if it was nothing. It was the only thing that he had in common with his blood. Not even his hair was the same colour with the rest of his family; but the shape of Myrcella's eyes, his beautiful golden niece, it was the exact replica of his own. And it was a trait she did not share with neither of her parents, with nobody but him. Wide eyes of green, shaped like almonds and glittering with mischief whenever they both felt the inkling for a good fight.

Strange, li little tings…

"You always were so good at saying the right thing uncle. It's how I remember you: the man who always knew what to say."

Tyrion gave a small laugh. "Well, that is perhaps the best way I am to be remembered as."

"Don't you have some clever words for me? Something for me to keep in mind, to help me laugh at their japes and be strong against their more cruel ones."

And though her tone was more or less flat, her eyes were windows to her truths and Tyrion knew that he would never be able to resist that gaze when she looked on him with such a pleading expression…

Tyrion sighed, and his shoulders fell a little.

"I don't know about advice, Myrcella. But I will share a few things I have found to be true in my life." He turned to her then, intent and serious. He did not know what it was to be a girl of sex and ten set to marry and live among enemies. But he did know about being an oddity. "Nothing you do or say will ever be perceived as neutral, or normal. It will either be tragic or comical or suspicious. You'll never go unnoticed, and you'll never be at rest. You'll either struggle or you'll fall."

Tyrion watched her as she watched him and a smile grew on his face at what he saw of her, knew of her.

"But you already know all that. Because you have brain enough for two, and as a queen, that is exactly the amount you will need. You may take whatever path you wish Myrcella: ignore them, or fight them, or make yourself into everything they think you are. I have done all of it. Whatever you chose…" and here, his hands gripped strongly, because he needed her to understand the importance this. " _Whatever_ you chose to do with what you're given, make sure to have a spare plan, Myrcella. Make contingency plans for contingency plans if you must – you're good at that. Pay attention to the people that surround you – knowing who you're dealing with and how to best use them can save your life. It has certainly saved mine more than once. You have to ensure your own survival here, dear niece, because nobody else will."

Myrcella swallowed thickly. She had been ensuring her own survival for a while now. She had not done as spectacularly as she might have wished, but she was still alive and mostly whole was she not?

That however was not the point.

"Are you telling me I should trust no one?" Myrcella asked without looking her uncle in the eye. _Are you telling me what my mother has been telling me all my life_ , she wanted to ask, but she didn't want to bring Cersei Lannister here, not when her uncle was keeping her company. It would be unkind.

"No. I'm telling you make yourself safe. You know where your vulnerable heart is: don't give that part away to anyone. Love and live and give your heart away if you wish, but keep your vulnerabilities to yourself."

"People are used to crushing anything vulnerable, aren't they." She muttered with a sigh. Vulnerable… she wasn't sure she had anything of that kind left in her any more.

… and what a lie that was. One she had been telling herself so long she almost believed it herself. The truth was she was vulnerable, in the most unlikely places.

"Yes they are… but who knows." Tyrion dispelled his own sudden bout of gravity with a laugh. "I'm just a poor old sod, bitter and cynical. Maybe I'm not the best one to give advice, sweet girl."

Myrcella scoffed and gave her uncle an affronted stare, melancholia forgotten.

"I can think of no better person: the world has been mocking and trying to kill you for years yet you refuse to die or bow out for them." She declared making her uncle chuckle.

"Now, now my dear. Don't get confused: that has not been the world, but my sister."

Myrcella rolled her eyes but did not hold back the smile.

"Sometimes I wish we could all just wake up one day with no memory at all in our minds but our names… and try living for one day like that: people without a past, only a future. It's a nice dream."

Tyrion wanted to tell her that perhaps it would more probably be a bloodbath, because even when they don't have a past, people are still the same. But in her desire to have people forget about where she came from and be accepted for who she was, Tyrion saw a reflection of himself – of the same wish he had so often had for so long.

Until he had stopped.

"It is a nice dream. But just a dream." Myrcella said then, flatly. She too knew that much, and for that Tyrion was happy. She had never been the kind of child to hold sand between her fingers and call it gold, thank the gods. "I don't think they will ever forget who I am. Perhaps I could learn to make that into a good thing."

Tyrion nodded, smiling at her.

"We can no more escape your name than you can escape your skin. Trust me, I've tried – escaping my skin, that is." His smile was a little more amused now than before. "I have found thought that inhabiting a role can be quite satisfying: it teaches you quickly to turn your every flaw and vice to your advantage."

Her eyes were attentive. How he was proud of her sharp mind.

"You think I should make them fear me?" the doubt was thick in her voice, but she was not outright against the idea. She simply did not like it.

Tyrion sighed. His father would tell her yes, her mother would tell her yes. He was _not_ those people: he was Tyrion Lannister and none other.

"Fear is the means, not the end; if you want to avoid using it, all the better. Your end game should be to make them respect you. …They'll be quick to listen to you, don't worry about that."

Myrcella scoffed softly. Because they would rip apart her every word with suspicion, that was why. "And they'll be just as quick to dismiss me."

Tyrion chuckled mutely. Aye, that was true enough. People had been dismissing what he said all his life, he knew that. They would be the same with her, because she was a woman, no matter how capable.

"Yes, but consider this - you have a great inheritance at your disposal: house Lannister." The look on her face, that mixture of distaste, disbelief and stinging amusement, made Tyrion laugh. "I mean it. We have quite a reputation you know. Use it to your advantage."

Myrcella narrowed her eyes at him. "They don't like Lannister much up here."

Tyrion scoffed. "A friend of mine told me once, if you waste time trying to be liked you'll be the most popular dead man in town[6]."

His niece graced him with a lopsided smirk, a shadow of her father's. But then she looked away without saying anything. He watched her profile, flawless in every curve, every line. She was so beautiful, indeed, more so than her mother had ever been. Tyrion looked at her and wondered if the whispers of the Red Keep were true: that she was a shadow of the Lady Lannister of the Rock in both looks and bearing – the woman that Tyrion had killed coming to this world. Those were careful and frightened whispers – his father would probably rip out any tongue that he caught saying that… but it had been precisely his father that had turned Tyrion's mind. The way Tywin looked at Myrcella sometimes made Tyrion think that perhaps the whispers had some truth to them.

Myrcella had noticed those looks, same as Cersei had noticed them and pretended not to. His niece did not know Tywin Lannister well enough to realize that she had his regard, but Tyrion knew his father's mind a little better. And that wide chest of jewels that had been gathering dust in the bowls of the Rock for decades and now belonged to Myrcella spoke of something: not of Tywin Lannister's sentiments, for Tyrion knew he had little to speak of. But rather, and more importantly, of his judgment. That Myrcella was worthy, in his father's eyes, of the property of the one woman that he was said to have loved and respected.

Tyrion could see the reason why, same as his father saw it, and there was no doubt that it was not based on something as ephemeral as looks.

Joffrey did not deserve to be mentioned. Tommen was a kind and clever boy, more adept to numbers and logistics than he was at fighting or anything else, but Myrcella… Myrcella was Cercei and Jamie's best creation – and in their own ways they were both blind to her. She was all Lannister, though she perhaps did not know that yet. In that, she had been lucky to be raised away from Lannisters. Tyrion almost laughed: what a splendid paradox! Himself, Cercei, Jamie… together they might make one passably decent human being. Tyrion had the cunning and vision, Cersei the drive, Jamie the prowess. They were pieces of a sword forged by Tywin Lannister: the aim, the blade, the arm. Myrcella had all those gifts in herself; she was all three of them in her own right, and luckily for her, she had forged herself away from the reach of those that would spoil her by trying to cage her. She had not been forced into a role, into a farce, as they all had been: the knight, the queen, the Imp. Myrcella had had a chance to grow and make herself, without anyone telling her who she was supposed to be. She had had to find herself much sooner than any other Lannister she had come from, or dead women she might resemble…

 _Which is why she will do better than all of us combined_. Tyrion knew it. He was convinced of it.

What was she thinking, he wondered. What did she want, if being powerful and respected was not enough? He almost chuckled at the irony of it. At the same weaknesses perpetrating themselves from father to daughter. Fatal ones, one might say.

Tyrion sighed deeply.

"You know, I have begun to think, dear niece, that we have a misfortune in common; you, your father… and myself as well. We all have a deeply-rooted need to be loved, for some reason."

Myrcella frowned at that, as if confused, but the moment she got his meaning she looked away… and she might as well screamed her admission at him. Well, at least she was aware of her weaknesses. But that kind of wish could lead to so many mistakes… Tyrion dearly hoped she changed her mind soon. For someone in Myrcella's position, love was not an easy option, nor was it a safe one. And that was speaking in terms of abstract love – of her people, her household, love of those she would command and rule upon. Tyrion dearly hoped she was not so naïve as to think she might make the Winter King bend for love.

The moment he thought of it, that same thought stopped him… and he tasted fear.

Tyrion looked long in her face. The face that was supposed to be her mothers, her fathers. The smile that reminded him of neither. Those eyes whose shape was only alike his and no one else's. It had been such a strangeness to have her love. Simply, in the manner of children, and then deeply as a young woman who felt for him more regard than for anyone. She loved him as his brother did – as family was supposed to. As her mother never had. He had been weak to it, as he always was, of course. As was she… _just look at Tommen_ , Tyrion reminded himself, _and how tightly she is wrapped around his finger._

What useless thoughts!

Her destiny was her own. Myrcella alone would shape it. And besides, the look on his face was undoubtedly scaring her: she was staring at him wide-eyed as if she expected him to say something terrible.

"Don't look so spooked Myrcella: you are stronger than your parents. You are the best of them both." he said, trying to make it sound warm, affectionate. He had little practice with it, but it wasn't so hard. "And you have my first rate brain. You'll be fine."

Myrcella sighed, her shoulders straightened and she stood with a little difficulty, as if she felt heavy and unwilling to move altogether, but once she had straightened the nonexisted creases from her skirts, she did give him a smile. She leaned in to hug him and he felt her soft lips kiss him lightly on his cheek.

"I'm happy you're here, uncle. I truly am."

Tyrion had felt relieved that she had not asked him what he had been thinking a moment before. Perhaps she had not wanted to hear it. Perhaps, she had not needed to.

oOo

She knew what she looked like as she walked hand in hand with her uncle down the path cleared for her to the heart tree. Little fires in small bowls lit her way, the rays of the sun spilled across her and no doubt made her seem to glow. She knew she looked beautiful because she could see it in the faces of the people around her, in their eyes as they took her in. There were so many of them, lined to see her from the moment she stepped out of the main gate of Winterfell all the way to the heart tree. She heard soft sounds of wonder and saw smiled, and smiled back gently to those that graced her so. Mostly they were simple people who worked on Winterfell and cared nothing for politics. People who only had wanted to see their future queen, see if she was as beautiful as they said, people who cared for the festivities and didn't really give any thought to why they were having them. Little children who giggled at the bride and pointed. She smiled at them more than she smiled as she moved further into the godswood, where the noblemen and bannermen were waiting for her. Even on their stern faces she saw the slacking of marvel. From the corner of her eye she saw the Red Priestess there too, and Jon Snow, Sansa and Arya and their mother looking as dower as ever.

And Robb Stark waiting for her at the foot of the Heart tree, right in front of its face and those eyes that made her shudder.

Myrcella had always been beautiful, but the perfection of it had been taken from her before she was grown enough to make advantage of such a thing. She saw herself unblemished now though, when her eyes met Robb Stark's and she noticed how his lips slightly parted at the sight of her and his eyes fixed on her with enough heat in them to melt the snow from the entire godswood. Unlike Myrcella, he was wearing his house colours proudly (and it was only then that she realized she had not seen him in anything but black ever since she met him) and for the first time, he had his crown or bronze and iron on top of his head. He resembled the boy she had met years ago more now, with his hair combed back and his curls were still rebelling, his beard was trimmed closer to his face than she had ever seen it.

Her already nervous heart doubled its beats and she squeezed her uncle's hand more tightly.

She was not afraid. She was not! She knew fear, she could master it. _This is not fear_ , she told herself.

But Myrcella didn't know what it was either.

There had been a pause among the attendants when she reached the King. The Imp was supposed to take her maiden cloak off her shoulders, but he could barely reach her waist. They were about to start snickering when Myrcella brought her own hands to the doe fastening the cloak and undid it calmly. Her uncle had not fretted either, though he had had quite the good laugh earlier when she had factually suggested it. She felt the silence take life and thicken as she took her cloak off her own shoulders exposing them to the cold air without caring at all for 'the way of things' as the Lady Stark had preciously put it, and laid it gently in her uncle's waiting arms, smiling at him and trying not to look too playful. It wouldn't do to be so satisfied of the crowd's shock, now would it.

Myrcella rose to look at Robb Stark in the eye and his were practically twinkling with hidden laughter. She put her hand in his and the ceremony began. Myrcella heard none of it. Words came to her as if from a distance and though when she spoke she did so clearly and with surety that granted her presence, she spoke almost without understand herself. She looked into Robb's eyes and nowhere else, and willed herself not to flinch when he unpinned his grey cloak from his back and fastened it around her shoulders with the outmost care, snarling direwolf holding it together.

The moment must have been momentous. She could feel the crowd holding their breaths.

What were they expecting, for the cloak to burn off her shoulders?

Robb stark noticed none of it and for the life of her, neither could she. And perhaps because the silence in that moment was so deep that Myrcella noticed something strange that had before seemed to her like nothing, but not anymore… she heard a voice. Soft as a whisper, so smooth like rustling leaves.

The wind for sure… except she could almost make out words.

Her heard stuttered and instinctively she tightened her fingers around his, eyes widening in alarm. His calm smile and his thumb soothing circles on the inside of her wrist told her not to panic… and Myrcella willed it so.

What was that? Could he hear it?

But the next moment the little fires she had followed to the heart tree flared brightly and Robb Stark was leaning to kiss her lips, because the ceremony of their marriage was over. Myrcella kept her eyes open – she could not see to be able to close them and so did he. Their faces so close looking at one another, the words they had spoken before seemed to take life fully between them and instead of to the gods, they spoke the each other with that brief kiss.

He leaned away and their eyes held for a moment more before he reached to his left, and Myrcella had to bow to him, to receive her new title. It was Robb Stark's had that put the heavy grown atop her golden head. It was bronze and iron, heavy on her brow and sharp spikes reaching up like daggers. It was just like his, except smaller and more delicate. It was just as sharp and not at all mean for beauty.

When Myrcella rose, she looked at Robb Stark briefly before they both turned to the crows, holding heads and finally the cheering let up and rose, ever louder as it had been so silent up until that point. The dark woods around her swallowed the sound and Myrcella tried not to shiver as she faced them all… and herself as she was now.

With her Winter crown on her head, she was now their queen.

oOo

The feast was raucous, the laughter loud, the food warm and aplenty, the music sometimes could be barely heard over the other sounds. It reminded Sansa of another feast years ago, but not even then there had been so many people dancing, and laughing and cheering. She was sitting by her husband and looking and trying to convince herself to eat. Robb Stark seemed serene, almost happy perhaps as he spoke to his brother and his friends and took their congratulations. He kept looking at her from the corner of his eye and Myrcella did the same, but this time she smiled at him fully in the face and the expression startled him, before he returned it.

She did not expect him to take her hand and kiss her knuckles. When he did, it seemed to dim out the noise in the room for a moment. That sinking feeling she had had somewhere in the region of her stomach returned again.

By now she knew what it was and was not nervous because of it.

This time she smiled.

Elia came to collect her for a dance and Myrcella stood. As custom demanded, she kept her new cloak on at first, but then Obara joined in with her and then so many others that Myrcella swore she had danced with everyone in that hall at least once before the night was hallway through. She danced with her uncle too once, before Oberyn took her away. She knew all the bannermen she took a turn with and they were all graceful with her, and she was polite to them. Strange how marked the difference in their manners was: they had had the smallest regard for her while she was the princess of the Iron Throne. Yet now that she was queen they obliged her with curtsies at least. Myrcella could not see the reason behind it. She was the same today as she had been a week ago! Where was the difference they saw?

But then she had no time to think on that much, because just as ended her dance with Dacey, laughing with true enjoyment, she found herself in her husband's arms.

He said nothing to her and she needed no words.

When the music started it was slower this time, and for that Myrcella was grateful. They made a handsome pair to whoever looked, she was sure, as they moved about each other, hand in hand. His eyes slipped from her face to her body to her shoulders and then back again. She knew she was wanted. There had scarcely been a single man to come close to her that had not wanted her tonight, but she had only had eyes for one of them, anxiously almost. Robb Stark did not seem to be so different from other men. But he was different from his usual self: she had never seen his face so warm, nor his eyes so alight.

He was happy, Myrcella realized. And perhaps she too was content.

And then what did it matter that there were those that stared with frowns on their faces, or those that never once smiled at her? Nothing at all. If she could have this, she would have everything.

When the dance ended, and he kissed her knuckles lightly as all other men did for their ladies, she turned her wrist without letting go of his fingers and kissed his knuckles too, as he had. It was not so shocking to her, lovers did it all the time in Dorne; Ellaria and Oberyn ahd done it only moments ago. It still brought a strange stillness to the Robb Stark's face, and an intensity to his eyes that made her blood rush to the surface of her skin and tingle.

Myrcella had known it would provoke him. She had done it just because of that treason. She had not imagined she would feel this way though, because of it.

oOo

She watches as the direwolf looks at the mess around the hall and his eyes are almost… she smiles thinking of it, but he looks so _bored_ , that Myrcella cannot help her amusement. A bored direwolf. Maybe he thinks these festivities as tiring now as she does, even though there plenty of noise and music and fun to be had, for those who enjoy drunkenness. Maybe he's weary as she is, having risen with the sun and having walked about all day.

Myrcella takes a slice of venison from her place and holds it out to him, outstretched under the table so that it might not catch the attention of anyone else. The direwolf eyes her speculatively perhaps wondering whether that little snippet of food was actually worth getting up for. She almost gives up but then he moves, trotting to her silently. Her heart skips a few beats when it comes the moment for that huge mouth of sharp teeth to take the meat from her hand, as if has before. But there is no reason to fear: the way beast lifts the venison from her fingers could be described as almost gentle really, as if he had taken it with lips as a human might. He hadn't even slobbered over her hand! Myrcella felt herself smile in triumph, so very pleased with herself for some reason.

Of course, the whole slobbering thing didn't last, because as soon as he was done with the meat – and that was a whole three seconds – he gave her fingers a good lick of two before sitting at the feet of her chair, enormous head on his legs. She could almost laugh at how sullen he looked, as if he was pouting.

A pouting direwolf.

"Something amusing you, Myrcella?"

His voice came from close, much closer than he usually spoke her to, but then again he had to lean in if he had any hope of being heard, seeing how loud it was in the great hall. She turned her face to him, and felt the heat start from her ears to her neck and inevitably her face - because there were scarcely a few inches between them.

What was it that he wanted to know?

_Oh!_

"Your direwolf, he..."

"Greywind." Robb corrected, or maybe simply put in since the tone was not that of a chiding but rather of someone reminding her a friend's name.

"Yes, Greywind." much too familiar for such a large animal, but she was not about to contradict him. "He seems rather bored, your grace."

Robb's eyebrows rose minutely.

Her husband, Myrcella reminded herself. Though he would not be her husband truly, not until tomorrow.

Well, not until the bedding.

Icy fingers of dread gripped her insides ad she dismissed the thought immediately. No use worrying about it now.

"Something wrong?"

But he had noticed of course. Myrcella smiled, shook her head.

"I was wondering about what gifts they will bring me – the Sand Snakes."

She had not, but it made no matter. In the face of his confusion, Myrcella took the chance to explain and make him forget he ever saw that flash of panic on her face.

"It is Dornish tradition that once the feast gets well and going, they stop and friends give presents to the bride, to celebrate her day."

His smile was amused. "Only to the bride?"

Myrcella laughed at his almost dismayed tone. He enjoyed the Sand Snakes. They seemed to him foreign creatures that were meant to be seen but not touched. What did he thing of her , she wondered briefly. She who was so many women at the same time and had gathered pieces of such different cultures within her.

She doubted he would refrain from touching…

"A wedding is the bride's day, in Dorne. It is her that they celebrate. Her transformation." And when he did not interrupt, Myrcella went on, leaning on her armchair just a bit more, so that she was closer and he could catch the scent of her hair, her skin.

Why was she playing with fire?

She knew why of course: she liked it. Same as she liked riding the wind and jumping off cliffs.

Would Robb Stark prove more dangerous than either, she wondered absently… and the thought made her lose trail of her thoughts for a single moment.

"The bride leaves her family and the life she has had so far, for a new one, her own. She leaves her name, unless she is the heir. She will leave her childhood, her life, a part of her past self, in a way. For the bride it's a transformation, something more to be added to her identity. For the groom its expected."

His eyes were at her lips the whole time she spoke and the way he leaned forward ever so slightly made her want to close the distance. She didn't know if she should thought. Should she?

_You are queen… you can do what you want to do._

The sudden whisper in her thoughts made her straighten her spine and draw back immediately, almost afraid that he had heard her. Robb looked puzzled for a moment, but then he gave her a look of such tenderness that Myrcella found herself relaxing into her own skin once more.

He thought she had been startled by the moment, when in fact she had been leading the moment on. It had not been his closeness to frighten her, nor the desire she felt unfurling in her belly, warmer than the wine and much more heady. She had managed to train herself to them now.

It was the thought in her head that had made reconsider herself. Perhaps the wine was getting to her head.

His hand was at her arm, fingers gently tracing the hemline of her dress where it fell off the shoulders, half caressing skin and calling forth shivers, half on the silk, which spear the head of his palm slower into her. He meant to make her feel at ease… and Myrcella felt herself thawing from the inside out at it. She allowed herself to react this way. She welcomed her own ability to even be capable of it. She had been so afraid that she would not know how to feel for him, that they would be forever strangers. I could not have been so far from the truth of them now; from the truth of Robb, who made it so easy to gravitate towards him whenever he chose to spend but an ounce of kindness on you.

And he did look at her with such kindness now.

…

Dorne did eventually present its gifts. Elia gifted the Winter queen with the best silks and laces, warm wools and velvets. Enough to make a hundred gowns, she said, for the one she would always call sister. Then Lady Nym, whose helpers brought forth a wide chest full of vials and bottles that Robb knew not the function of. Scents and rare essences, the Lady declared loudly enough to be heard over the hall, from the most sweet smelling flowers of the desert of Dorne and the continent of Essos. And Myrcella had inclined her head at the Lady and thanked her. Her crown had not moved an inch and it was as if she had been born to wear it. Obara the Warrior laid in front of his queen a collection of short lean daggers that glinted dangerously in the candlelight, and Robb knew that he had not mistaken that gleam of instant interest in his wife's eyes, how they lit up at the sight. The two shared a smile that was as sharp as those blades.

The last to come forth was Tyene, and she held but a basket, round like a globe. Myrcella did not take her eyes off the other Lady and together like that they stared each other down without blinking a single eyelash. Lady Tyene laid the basked wordlessly on the table… and Robb saw his queen's face change, her features sharpen. She smiled that same razor smile that she seemed to reserve only for Tyene and lifted up the lid of the basket, putting her hand inside in one fluid movement without ever breaking contact with the Lady in front of her.

He swore his heart jumped when Myrcella took out her hand and a snake of blue and black scales was wrapped around her wrist.

The smile on her face was satisfied. A challenge. And he knew then that Tyene had meant to cower her… and failed. Myrcella had known there was a snake in there, thought it was only her nerve that made her so fearless as to put her hand in and reach for it.

"The Blue Cobra of the Red Waste." Lady Tyene declared then as the snake hissed around Myrcella's wrist. It tried to bite her but she did not flinch. He did not imagine Lady Tyene's dejection at the fact.

"A toothless one, of course." The queen of Winter added, as if amused by the whole ordeal. Her eyes pinned the Sand Snake and did not let go. "Its venom is deadly within moments of a bite, but distilled, it acts as a cure for almost every snake bite known. I thank you, Lady Tyene. You are most generous."

And though Myrcella sounded perfectly honest as she spoke, the history Robb knew made the words into a mockery.

Oberyn came last and he was empty handed. But he lifted both his palms for the queen to take instead.

"I do not come to you with gifts, Winter Queen, but with a promise instead." And as those black eyes burned with intensity, Robb knew that Oberyn mean his every word. "I promise you that you shall forever be a princess of Dorne. That as long as my daughter calls you sister, Sunspear will be your home, and Dorne will keep you in its heart. And I promise you that whenever you need a friend, you will find one in me."

He kissed both her hands and bowed his head before he left.

oOo

It was not so long after that the calls for the bedding began. Robb was carried away by a heap of woman of all ages and as he looked back, he caught only a glimpse of Myrcella's petrified face before they pushed him through corridors all the way to his rooms. The ladies were playful and cheerful and some of them drunk enough to strip him down to his shirt and take off his boots before they let him into his room.

Once he was in there, he waited, blood rushing in his veins, for quite a few moments before the commotion came to his door. He did not hear much – he got the most of it from Jon the day after.

Of how Myrcella had kept a stoic face all the while, keeping her chin up and angry eyes firmly planted ahead waiting for it to be over. She had seemed almost indifferent, Jon said, and colder than the Wall. Of how Karstark had grabbed her from the back of the dress and ripped it open all the way to her waist… and Robb could just imagine the harsh intake of breath she had given, the look of surprise on her face before it turned murderous. It was not strange to him at all that he could imagine it so clearly. Jon Told him it had been exactly so, and how Karstark's stupidity had stopped the other men in the company, and none other had touched the queen after – they had not dared, Jon had said, so murderous had been her the look of her. But Karstark had been drunk beyond himself, and started laughing, demanding that she show them her missing ear, grabbing for her face, for her hair.

And Robb could almost imagine the dead finality in her 'No.' Sharp and strong, like a blow. Jon had spared him details up to this point, but he did not when he told Robb of how the princess had looked at Karstark as if she was about to murder him then and there. Of how fast she had moved and how nobody had even bothered to stop her. She had been quick, Jon would tell him, and Karstark too drunk. She had bruised his balls good and proper with a knee, and blackened his eye so hard that the man twice her size had needed up on the stone floor moaning.

Robb would find it in him to smile at this the next morning, but that night, when Myrcella entered his room with her chin led high and her eyes blazing, smiling was the last thing that came round his head. She slammed the door closed, pushing her hands against the wood as if she wanted for it to never open again. He saw the rip of her gown, the arch of her spine beneath it all the way to the small of her back, and bruises blooming around her shoulders in the shape of fingerprints… her chaffed knuckles that were starting to bruise as well. His blood went utterly cold and Robb instinctively took a step forward, but stopped when he noticed the tremor of her shoulders, those long fingers arching like claws, trying to dig into the hard wood of the door. All he could hear was her fast breath. It pierced the silence and shattered his thoughts, but though he was itching to hold her, Robb dared not. He did not know if she wanted him right then and did not want to risk making it worse.

When she turned to face him not a moment after, Robb was hit with the full force of her flushed face, alive and breathing… breathing fucking fire. Her eyes were alight, her cheeks flushed and her lips pale, and she was looking as if she wanted nothing better than to commit murder with one of her sharp wedding gifts. Gone was the poise and her reserve, she was not cold in that moment; she was fire made flesh; living emotion and fierce passion. And those eyes of violent green had been dry but for the fury they boiled with.

She'd not been crying as he'd thought.

She'd been fucking furious.

TBC:::

* * *

[1] Jon Steinback

[2] Jon Steinback

[3]From 'Young Victoria' – Prince Albert's line.

[4]From 'Seven yeas in Tibet'

[5] Tyrion's words about Loras Tyrell's marriage to Cercei

[6] Bron's line from the show, though I don't remember the episode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I and so nervous and unsadisfied with this chapter TT_TT  
> yes, this is the chapter without end... o_O  
> As I promised, the wedding is here though - I took me forever to write it (got through several drafts before i was willing to consider it) and this is not even it yet! There are all the Sansa/Jon scenes that i left out because i didnt want to deviate the story too much (even though i feel like taking them out somehow takes away from the narrative, but no worries, i will post them), and there is also the wedding night... which i am humonguously nervous about writing but that i have alredy begun, much to my woe. 
> 
> I know the pace of this chapter is a bit different. I tried to fill the blanks, and connect the dots of this part of the sotry as best i could. I hope you like it.
> 
> Let me know. ;)


	14. Missing scenes: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So these are teh scenes that happen at the same time with the last chapter - and a little bit after. I did not put them toghether (except for that scene between the Starks in the last chapter) because they would have made it much too long, but also because these scenes are part of a different storyline, and should be kept separate from Myrcella's until they cross again.
> 
> Ok, I hope you enjoy.

_**Side-Notes** : Jon Snow and/or Sansa Stark_

_"When I was your age, my grandfather gought me a ruby bracelet. It was too big for me and would slide up and down my arm. It was almost a necklace. He later told me that he had asked the jeweler to make it that way. Its size was supposed to be a symbol of his love. More rubies, more love. But I could not wear it comfortably. I could not wear it at all. So here is the point of everything I have been trying to say. If I were to give a bracelet to you, now, I would measure your wrist twice."_

_Jonathan Safran Foer_

He is all dressed in heavy black furs and with an equally inky mop of curls on his head… but even as worn as he looks, even with that dark beard covering half his face, Sansa cannot miss it: she knows him. He is still her brother; even though he has changed so much since she last saw him. She knows him from the heart. She has never forgotten his face, how could she – it was her father's face; and even if it had not been, she has always had her dreams to remind her of it.

But Jon Snow is not Eddard Stark. He is only Jon Snow, always himself. How she had missed him… Without even knowing him that well anymore, she had missed him.

She knows the secret now. A secret people have died to protect… one that her _father_ took to the grave with him. Robb had told her as soon as he could, and it had been of such importance that he had taken her alone in the words, with Nymeria and Greywind patrolling around them, assuring no living thing with ears could heard them for miles. He had told her _everything_ … and then Sansa had floored him by telling her that she already suspected parts of it. Told him of her dreams and other things she was capable of… and her brother had looked at her as if he had just found something precious, as if he'd never seen her before; half awed by it, half dreading it.

Sansa had looked into his eyes, and known what it was that had brought him to speechlessness.

"Did you think you were alone Robb? That none of us could do what you did?"

Because she knew of his wolf dreams, of how much he had mastered it now, accepted who he was with a bit of resignation to it. But why had he felt so lonely with that secret? Had Arya not told him that she too could see through Nymeria's eyes, that she dreamed of hunting and killing with her? Had he not understood Rickon's closeness with Shaggy for what it was?

He was _not_ alone. He never had been; none of them were. Not even Sansa, though Lady had been long dead.

Sansa had taken her brother's hand then.

"We are all the same, _all_ of us. We are the wolf's blood."

"We're _wargs_ , Sansa." He'd said gravely and Sansa had felt like laughing. He said it as if it was such a bad thing. It was not.

"Yes, we are. We are what tales are made of. Is that not _wonderful_?"

And she truly thought so. It _was_ wonderful. And in the Red Keep it had been something that belonged to her alone and nobody could take it away. It had been her secret, her weapon. One that she had honed carefully and alone, without anyone's guidance. It was a gift, Sansa had always seen it that way; one that she had used to save and to kill.

And she was reminded of it now as she looked at Jon Snow ride in the courtyard of Winterfell. Of a dream she had had years ago, of ice and flames and snow.

Arya had come out running and jumped in his arms with such strength that she had almost send them both toppling down. Sansa had followed her with a step as hurried as she could without outright running herself, and stayed a little behind as Jon and Arya embraced and spoke over one another, hasty and laughing and with small tears in both their eyes as they looked each other over.

She waited for him to look up and see her and when he did, she smiled at him with every ounce of her happiness.

His face froze.

"Hello Jon."

His shock lasted for a blink or two. Her name on his lips was almost like a question, as if he did not recognize her. He had looked at her strangely, looked at her face as if he was searching for something. Sansa knew what he was seeing. Her mother had looked at her that way as well, Robb too: as if they knew her and yet did not; as if she was herself, and yet not. Sansa had never thought she wore her feelings inside out for all to see, but there was something in her that her family saw and none other could - or rather, something they did _not_ see. They searched for the girl they had once known in her face, in her eyes, and were surprised to see that most of that girl was gone. And those few hundred times they looked upon her face, they always searched for her and were surprised to find her missing.

Jon was looking for that girl too… and found a stranger in her stead. Sansa did not think he would mind much – after all the girl she had once been had not loved Jon Snow half so well as Sansa loved him now, if only from memories and the sake of their shared blood.

Sansa stepped close to him and, ignoring better sense, she hugged him same as Arya had, though not quite so enthusiastically. Jon stood frozen, she could feel the uncertainty off him as if it were heat.

"I have missed you brother." She spoke softly, without letting go of him.

And just as she said the words, his uncertainty hardened even more, before breaking completely and Sansa felt arms come around to hold her – with hesitation at first, and then, once she held him closer and did not let go as he perhaps feared she would, his embrace tightened and she was almost lifted off her feet.

It lasted a moment, but she held him close and thought of all those nights in the Red Keep, for months on end, when thoughts of him had been her only comfort. He had been, in a time of unending darkness, her last ray of home and hope. Her only reason to endure and keep living when all hope seemed lost.

Now he was here and they were together.

Sansa laughed with unexpected happiness as she pushed back and looked at him, in those eyes grey as steel and so familiar.

Jon's smile was tentative and he was still hesitant, but he did not treat her with coldness. He took his cue from her, she realized, and would accept her warm as he would have probably accepted it had she held a different demeanor. Besides, Sansa knew the reason for his hesitation: he did not recognize the half-sister he had known in this creature that stood before him now. She wanted to tell him to stop trying. The past was gone. Too many things had buried it. Now they were alive, they were together, and they were in Winterfell.

In the face of the magnitude of that, of something she had thought impossible for so long, everything else faded away.

oOo

Jon Snow would look at his brothers and sisters all the time without even blinking if he could. It still seemed almost unreal that he was even there, let alone with them again.

But it was not unreal. It was truth. After so many years, he was back with his first family again.

Arya was the same as she had ever been, only grown now, and as they ate together and Jon looked at her face, he found himself searching for their similarities yet again. He had always done that. He had Arya had had that special bond because they looked the same: they looked like Starks, with their black curls and long faces and eyes of grey steel. Arya was still herself, still as he remembered her, but not a child anymore: she was a young woman now and as Jon looked at her he wondered... had his mother, who all said Arya resembled so, looked like this? Had Lyanna Stark too had those same untameable curls about her snow-pale face, like Arya? Had she had the same sharp mouth, the same piercing eyes, made unsettling, surrounded as they were by black lashes and a proud brow?

He could not look at himself and imagine what his mother might have looked, even though he had apparently inherited all of her colouring, but he could look at Arya and see Lyanna... same as Ned Stark had.

Jon remembered how Ned Stark's eyes used to look at him with unbridled affection. It used to give him solace and make him angry at the same time. It was perhaps strange in the light of all he knew now, but Jon still thought of Ned Stark as his father: he was the only father Jon had ever known. But he wondered now, if it had been only Jon that Ned Stark saw (and loved) when he looked at the little boy Jon had once been, or his sister as well.

"Do I have something on my face?" Arya snaps and Jon blinks at her in surprise. His sister frowns at him. "You keep staring."

Jon smiles at her. "I have missed you."

Arya's frown softens and her eyes warm up in clear affection. She doesn't say anything, but then again she doesn't need to.

"And besides, you've grown quite beautiful. I don't think anyone will be calling you horse-face anytime soon."

There it was, that familiar scowl. "Shut up!" His sister hissed, even though not with quite as much feeling as Jon knew she was capable of. Jon chuckled and it was pure luck that the piece of bread Arya threw at him didn't end up on his forehead. Or perhaps not. Arya's aim was deadly accurate these days, he doubted luck had much to do with it.

His little sister had changed. There was more to her now, more shadows in his eyes that sharpened her gaze. Robb had told him some of it and he could imagine the rest himself. But in times of play like right then, she was the same as ever: she was the Arya he had known and had loved. He was the sister he had always cherished, even when he was not supposed to have sisters.

Sansa on the other hand… Sansa was another matter.

Jon admitted that he had not recognised her for herself at all the first moment he saw her in the courtyard. She was tall and elegant and stunningly beautiful, and only in the next couple of blinks had she become Sansa – the girl who used to call him half-brother. And the more time they spent together, the less did Jon her. She might as well have been a different person wearing his sisters face.

(…but though he had not known the young woman that greeted him so warmly, Ghost had, and he had run circles around her before allowing himself to be petted by Sansa and Arya both as if he were a pup and not a direwolf the size of a small horse. Jon had been astounded; Ghost had never been one for too much friendliness and he never allowed anyone to touch him, or arms would start coming off. And yet there he was, playing like a pup with his sisters and his littler mates as well, raising so much ruckus I the yard that they had had to set them loose in the godswood.)

Sansa was still the perfect lady, graceful and delicate and all things Jon supposed a lady should be… but her eyes were sharper now, her manner more free and she seemed more at ease with herself, more aware about the world… and she called him brother with a smile on her face, as if it was natural, as if she always had loved him the same. Jon didn't know what to make of it. He had almost frozen stiff when she first greeted him that day and had had no idea how to respond. She gave him no chance to ponder on it. Despite the reticence, she treated him with warmth and kindness and a freedom that Jon would have never expected from the Sansa who used to avoid his company wherever she could, following her mother's example.

He realized his idiocy that night in Robb's solar: he so readily noticed the change in Arya, but not in his other sister. Who knew what she had had to endure, what she had had to live through and how it had changed her. He did not know what had brought to such a different way of thinking and being.

She did astound him though, the moment they were left alone.

"Tell me Jon, is it true that Janos Slynt died at your hands?"

Jon had turned to look at her so quickly that his neck almost hurt from it. She had asked him softly, the same way she always spoke, but he had been so shocked: because he had not expected someone so... so... well, someone who looked and acted like such a perfect lady to be asking of executions, for one. But also because she had asked in the same manner she had enquired if he would like some more venison stew at dinner!

Perhaps it was a good thing that he did not have a name for her anymore. He doubted it would have been accurate.

"I... he was executed for treason against his brothers." Jon said then, after he had a moment to swallow his surprise.

Sansa gave him a small smile, one he had never seen on her face before. It was one sided and radiate a dark sort of satisfaction. There was something sharp about her whole countenance then, something unforgiving and hard.

"I'm glad." She said... and she looked it. "Did you hang him?"

Jon could not imagine why she wanted to know but he knew better than to ask that.

"No. I took his head myself. It was years ago."

That sharp smile on his sweet cousin's face – the cousin that insisted on calling him brother though she must know he was not, and never had been – made Jon frown a tiny bit. He saw her anew, and saw the changes in her as well, now that she was more open.

Jon looked at Robb for guidance, but his brother's face was grim and Arya's angry. In the end it was Sansa herself that explained.

"He betrayed father, you see. He was one among many, undoubtedly." And Sansa's so bright and pure face now darkened considerably. "But he was the one that by denying him assistance made father's arrest and execution that much faster. And when they brought father to Baelor's steps, it was Janos Slynt that threw him down, without shame, for his head to be taken."

Sansa's piercing eyes turned to him and in the firelight they seemed paler somehow, their clear blue made cold by a cold, patient hatred that made them glitter like stars.

"I have been wanting Janos Slynt dead for a long time, brother." she said by way of explanation.

Jon had not known all this when he had had to execute Janos Slynt. He had done what he had done because it was the law of the Black Brothers and it was his duty as their Lord Commander. And he had taken Janos Slynt's head instead of hanging him, because he was a child of the North and his only father had raised him to know that you had to look a man in the eye if you wanted to take his head, and that if you could not do that, perhaps the man did not deserve to die. Janos Slynt deserved to die.

He explained thit to Sansa as best as he could – it was not a difficult thing to explain but her eyes unnerved him. He knew that she listened attentively, as did Robb and Arya. Just as he knew that it changed nothing for her. Janos Slynt to her was a man that had to die, not for betraying the Night's Watch, his vows and his brothers, but for betraying Ned Stark. Jon was glad though, that he had not known at the time... because he knew he would probably have felt the same way as she did and that would have made it harder for him.

When he was done speaking, Sansa did something that surprised him even more though. She had come to sit by him, taken his hand – the scared one, where hot metal had singed when he had pulled Longclaw out of a burning wight's corpse and saved Old Bear's life.

A scar from a lifetime ago.

"How did you get this?" she had asked softly, even though when she had taken his hand Jon had gotten the distinct impression that she already knew the scar was there even though she couldn't possibly.

Jon told her. He told her many things of what he had seen and done, but always kept himself in the time before he was stabbed and left for dead. He felt weary of speaking of that time. He told them of the north beyond the wall instead. Of the wildlings and their ways, the strange animals and the wargs that commanded them.

He told them of himself and Ghost and the connection they shared as well. He knew he was safe as he did so: . Saw Arya nod and didn't need to see Robb's face to know that he too could do the same. They were not just wargs: they were one with their wolves, their souls recognised each other. They were a pack. And then he looked at Sansa and remembered that her one of their litter had been killed the moment it had gone south. Lady had been the first to die. Her bones had come back to Winterfell before Sansa ever made it to the Red Keep. Jon wondered, in that moment, if his sister felt the emptiness of a connection severed. He knew he did. When he and Ghost had been separated by the wall Jon had felt as if a part of himself had been left behind. The threat pulled at him and he felt the connection stretch and ache.

By the look in Sansa's face when their eyes met, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her sad little smile told him all he needed to know.

"It's why they are so affectionate with me." Sans said and Jon immediately knew what she meant. "They seem to know I've been lonely without Lady."

And perhaps it was true. Their direwolves were not overly affectionate unless they were playing with each other, or with their humans. But with Sansa they were different. Nymeria resting right at Sansa's feet was proof of it. Ghost's particular affectionate behaviour with his sister was proof of it. Even Shaggy was better-behaved and playful around Sansa.

"I am like you as well… but different, I suppose." Sansa started, answering the unspoken question. From the look of immediate interest in Robb's face and the sharpening of Arya's attention, Jon knew that they had not heard this one before.

"So you are a warg." Arya stated, as if to confirm it. "But…"

"I never had dreams of seeing through Lady's eyes, no." Sansa said, drily almost… and Jon knew that come hell or high water, Sansa would never forgive Cersei Lannister for killing her direwolf. "But I had other kinds of dreams."

She looked into the flames, as if the answer was there. The dancing fire played across her pale skin and it made her hair look as they were flames too… or blood. There was such a set look on her face, it made her skin look as hard as porcelain and just as smooth.

"There was a time when all I wanted, all I could _think_ of, was how to escape. The thought consumed me. At night I had dreams about flying high into the sky, seeing King's Landing getting smaller and smaller as I flew away, chasing the northern wind." Sansa closed her eyes as if she could see it even now. "They were beautiful dreams. I away woke up surprised that I didn't have wings on me, so real they felt… perhaps I started with birds because everyone used to call me little birds, or little dove or all such nonsense. I don't know."

"Perhaps it was because you wanted wings to fly away." Jon murmured… even though not for a moment could he believe those were normal dreams that Sansa had been having. Sansa gave him a smile, a true one this time, not one that could cut glass.

"Yes perhaps." She said softly. "There was a yellow canary I had in a cage in my room. I opened its door one day; I wanted it to be free, so at least one of us could have what we wanted… but it wouldn't get out. It just stayed there, in its cage, not even trying to fly away." And as she spoke her anger seemed to spark and take life. "It almost made me smash that cage from the top towers, bird be damned. I couldn't understand why it did not want to get out."

Jon _did_ understand. He did not interrupt his sister though.

"I dreamt myself in a cage that night. I could see my room, and myself in my bed, sleeping fitfully. I saw the open door, and I flew out. Out and way, higher and higher until the air was so cold I felt my heart would stop. When I woke I knew these were not just dreams: the canary was gone."

"Can you do it with other animals?" Arya immediately asked.

"It's easier with birds. I can warg into even five or six or them at the same time but not for long."

Jon almost sputtered in surprise.

"Five or six?!"

Sansa smiled at him. "Yes." She said calmly. "Does that mean I'm good at it?"

Jon was almost speechless. Almost.

"Yes, I would think so. The best warg I have ever met could only control three animals at a time, and they all fought his influence."

His question was implicit. The way Sansa's smile widened, told him his answer.

"My birds don't fight me. I know how to pick them. I used to keep a small flock in the Red Keep. Nobody cared about birds. I raised them and they knew me."

Jon was shocked to say the least… not by the extent of his sister's ability, even though it was amazing, but by her comfort with it. The general opinion south of the wall, the opining he had been raised with (and Sansa even more so, because the stories only grew more frightening the further south one heard them, and Sansa had heard them from her septas and her mother) was that wargs were dark, dangerous creatures. Monsters to be feared. Shifters of skin and stealers of souls. It was perhaps why it had taken him such a long time to recognise the bond he had with Ghost, or rather, its nature. He knew Robb had had the same problem. They had both fought it in the beginning, not wanting feel as if they were half animals.

Jon had had the wildlings to teach him better, and Robb had learned to trust Greywind's intuition as much as he trusted himself during the war because it had saved his life when nothing or nobody else could have.

Who had Sansa had?

"You speak of it as if you're…" but Jon did not know how to continue.

Robb caught his meaning before Sansa did and answered him instead of their sister.

"She sees it as a gift, Jon." His brother said with a small smile. "Don't you?"

Sansa's eyes were serious. "It _is_ a gift. It's rare and its precious and admit it or not, it has saved our lives. Your wolves protect you, don't they? They _are_ you, you are them. You are one."

"We are not. We are however… complementary, if you will. And even that was hard to see at first." Robb admitted. "I didn't want to be a wolf. I am a man, not a beast." One look at his brother and he had known Jon had, at one point or another, felt the same.

Sansa only rolled her eyes at that.

"We _are_ animals: we are the wolves of winter." She said, such steel in her voice that it took them all aback for a moment. None of them expected such strength of conviction, such loyalty to her northern heritage, from the sister that, out of them all, had been the most southern: both in breeding and inclination. But perhaps, if one thought of the last 5 years of her life, this was not so surprising. Maybe Sansa, surrounded as she had been by Lions, had had to hold on to the Stark within her most strongly than all of them to survive them. "There is a reason the direwolf is the sigil of house Stark. There was a _reason_ you found those pups years ago and a reason we kept them. They were _meant_ for us and I have never seen them as anything but a gift from the gods – and so is our ability to throught their eyes."

Robb smiled softly.

"You sound just like mother." He said.

Sans raised her chin at him. "That's because she is right."

Jon anxiety spiked. She was not aware at all of the risks of it, was she…

"It _is_ a gift. But it's also very dangerous, Sansa. There's a difference between simple skinchangers and wargs." Jon pointed out. "You remember how Lady was so gentle and well behaved, how all our wolves have some of us in them – and the bond was so strong that this happened even before we started seeing through their eyes. By warging we take some on _them_ in _us_ as well. And if their influence is not fought, you can lose yourself to them."

Sansa was suspiciously still and quiet as she listened to him.

"Yes I know that." She said in a frail whisper… and Jon felt his heard skin one beat in every three. Robb had straightened on his seat and, while Arya looked at her sister with suspicion.

Sansa gulped before she answered, wringing her hands in her lap for a moment.

"I… when I found out what I could do… it was all I spent the day doing. I grew thin and sick, and could hardly tell what was real and what was not. All I wanted was to fly."

She shook her head, as if the memory was too much to bear and Jon was reminded of Haggon's words. That birds can be very tempting, but one forgets about the mundane things of line if one enters them too often, and gives themselves up to the flight.

"You don't seem so off your rocker to me." Arya said flatly, looking at her sister in an appraising manner, so frank that Sansa laughed. "Well, not more than usual, that is."

"I'm fine now. I got over it."

"How?" Jon asked immediately. He had heard it was impossible to go back once you started losing yourself to the animals you possessed.

Sansa's eyes flattened though, and her smile turned bitter as she looked from his face to Robb's… and suddenly Jon knew.

"They told me you were dead. That you and mother had been killed in Riverrun. I already thought Arya dead. Word of Rickon and Bran had come some weeks before that. All my family was gone. I felt hopeless then and was convinced I wanted to die… that is, until I remembered how to be angry."

Sansa's eyes hardened, her face froze as she remembered what desolation had felt. Jon knew exactly the feeling: had had had it too. The powerlessness had almost driven him mad and the grief had been like nothing he had ever known.

"It shocked me into my body I think. Into reality. I wanted to kill them all. I still do really…"

Sansa's words came out of her mouth as if she was speaking to herself, but then her sharpness returned and she was looking at Jon with a steady concentration that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"I dreamt about you when I fell asleep that night, Jon." Sansa said steadily. "I saw you, all dressed in black standing on top of the wall. It was dark and you were looking at the abyss. Those scars you have there-" Her fingers skimmed his cheek, the marks left by the eagle that had attacked him a lifetime ago. "They were fresher than they are now, red still. You were angry… and sad."

Jon gulped down his words, his feelings.

"I think I saw you through Ghost. It felt that way." Sansa added then, softly as if she was not sure of it herself.

Jon didn't even know where to begin.

"How is that possible?" that was the first question he thought to ask.

"I don't know. You were the only family I thought I had left. I fell asleep thinking about you. It felt as if I needed to see you more than I needed my next breath… so I suppose I got my wish…"

Jon felt something in him move and quicken at her words, but it still could not distract him from what he knew to be true: what she was speaking of was supposed to be impossible.

"I don't know how it happened." Sansa said then, preceding his questions, Robb's questions and even Arya's. She looked at them in the eye one after the other. "I don't know how or why, I cannot control it. Once I knew Robb and mother were still alive and Arya was said to have been taken by the Ramsey Snow, I tried warging into Nymeria. I thought… I thought if anyone could know, it would be her." But form the way Sansa spoke of it, Jon knew not to expect anything good.

"They told me I did not wake for two days, even though when I was in her, it felt not more than a few hours. I have not tried it since."

They were all left speechless, but not for long.

"Didn't you warg into the birds anymore?" Arya asked then, detracting them from the silence of shock that Sansa had left behind.

"Yes I did. I was more careful about it though." She added immediately, when two pair of reproofing eyes met hers. But then she started to smile and Jon was starting to know this smile: it resembled Arya's when she was about to make some mischief. Jon was stricken with the similarities between his sister in a way he never had been before. "I didn't want to dream anymore, I'd rather plan. I used the birds to spy on people. I got easier once I gave up on the whole flying away part. After that, it was a matter of using them as means to an end. Nothing more."

But Jon was not so convinced. "You did not get sick anymore?"

"No. But then again, perhaps that's because I did not want to run away anymore." Sansa admitted with a careless shrug. "I wanted revenge."

The way she spoke of it, the ease she had with the idea of it… Jon couldn't say that he was entirely surprise. The steel in Sansa's veins was visible to naked eye: if one paid attention, and Jon had been paying her al lot of attention that day, one could see that she was like a dagger wrapped in silk: the sharpness of her was just a breath away beneath the smoothness.

"You told me that you saw him." Arya said then, directing her words to Sansa, with only a cursory look to Jon. "That you saw him burn that night."

Jon looked from one sister to another. "You did?"

Sansa met his eyes and there was such tenderness there, such care. She smiled at him sweetly, even though her eyes started brimming with sadness and unshed tears.

"I did. I don't know why it's easier with Ghost. I suppose it's really not, but it doesn't hurt me either." She murmured... and her eyes go wide as she looks at him in both wonder and fear. "I saw them light your pyre Jon. I saw you burn, I thought you dead… I howled and howled but they would not let me out."

Jon's heart picked up. They had told him they had locked Ghost in one of the cages in the fringes of Castle Black – close to where they had ended up building his pyre, in the end. They had been afraid that Ghost would turn wild after Jon was gone.

Sansa held on to his hand so hard that her nails had left marks, reminding him of where he was.

"But when the fire died, you were there… and you were as alive as you are now."

Jon remembered all too well. He remembered standing in the middle of the fire, not knowing what was happening as his clothes burned and the head licked at him but did not char his flesh, even though his hair fizzled away and so did everything else but his flesh and bones… he had not known what fear was until that moment. Even as he thought he was about to die – as they stabbed him and left him for death. He had known fire and, in one, life and death as well.

Both his sisters and his brother were looking at him as though he held some secret, some unknown truth. He did not.

"I was not dead. I was wounded badly, but still alive. The Red Woman healed me with her magic… and with fire." Jon said simply. He said what she already knew, what he had said to Robb three years ago when they had met in the south: Robb after a battle, Jon after being turned away from his black brothers, who had been afraid of him at the time.

"But you did not _burn_. You were in the fire and you did not burn…"

Jon said nothing to that. When he went south and met his brother, there had been a man with him, one of the house Reed who told him things he had not spoken on in almost two decades. Things no one other had known but Howland Reed and Ned Stark. It had made sense to Jon then, why Ned Stark had always told him: _'you may not have my name, but you are my blood.'_ Jon now could almost smile at that; at how hard his father had tried not to lie to him, even if his whole life was in fact hidden and Jon had been the best kept secret in seven kingdoms. Ned Stark had always told him Jon had the wolf's blood in his veins and that was no lie... he had simply never mentioned what the other half was.

And there was only one thing that the fire did not burn as readily as it consumed everything else.

Even though Jon found it too strange.

"I _did_ burn Sansa. I have burned myself with fire before." His hand was more than proof of it, even though it had been hot steel technically, and not fire that burned him. "It just..."

"Fire burned you, sure. It just didn't _kill_ you." Arya fills in for him and he known enough of her to detect her irony. She sounded resentful as well. Angry almost. Jon knew the feeling: she had just gotten her brother back, only to know now that he had never been her brother at all, not even half of one.

"It could have been the Red Woman." Arya immediately supplies looking from one sibling to the other. "I know Red Priests can revive the dead, I have seen it myself. Beric Dondarrion was in the riverlands and his red priest brought him back from death six times. _Six_. Maybe it was the Red Woman's magic and it has nothing to do with your blood."

Jon had thought of it himself. But Melisandre denied with with absolute insistence.

"She told me she did nothing." Sansa said softly. "She told me that she prayed for her god to heal him, but Jon's wounds would not close. That she had prayed for him to come back to the world, but he would not move even when she offered her own blood in return for your life. She told me that they put him to the fire as he had been, covered with his own blood. And that it was his own magic that healed him: the strength in the blood of kings and the fire. She is convinced she had woken the dragon from stone and ice... like in the legends." Sansa's eyes were piercing, almost hypnotic.

But Jon found himself frowning as she spoke.

"Don't believe everything Melisandre says Sansa. She is not half so sure as how she sounds sometimes. Believe me, I have been in her company long enough to know."

"So is she wrong?" Arya jumped up. "She _could_ be wrong, couldn't she? You look nothing like a Targaryen. You look like father, you always have."

"No. He looks like his mother." and Robb sounded as sure as he always did. The gravity in his voice was not something that could easily be dismissed. "Howland Reed told us himself. He is Lyanna's son, and Rheagar's. He was there, with father, when they found Lyanna... and Jon with her, a newborn."

Jon met his brother's eye and saw a twinkle there, of both sadness and amusement. A grim sort of resignation. Howland Reed had told them more than that. He had been with Ned Stark at the Tower of Joy... and by then King's Landing had already been sacked, and the Targaryen children had already been murdered along with their mother, so brutally that it was a crime nobody in the realm was likely to ever forget. Howland Reed had told them of a promise Ned Stark had made to his dying sister. Jon could not forget what he had felt as the strange man he had never met, spoke with such reverence of a mother Jon had never known. And yet he had felt tears in his eyes when he heard how Lyanna had held on to her son – to _him_ \- how frightened she had been for his life and how her last breath and her last thought had been for him, his safety and his happiness.

In his dreams his mother had always looked at him with kindness. There was no doubt now that those dreams had not been just fantasies of a child. His mother had loved him, and now he no longer doubted it. For those short weeks Lyanna had survived giving him to the world, she had loved him fiercely.

Jon had been so absorbed in his thoughts that Arya's next abrupt question startled him a little.

"So... You're a Targaryen now?" She asked, looking at him with those familiar eyes of grey that seemed in that moment so dark they were almost black.

"I'm a Snow, Arya." Jon responded, the bitterns of his early years over this, conspicuously missing from his tone now. "Still a bastard, no matter whose."

"You don't know that." Sansa immediately said, speaking for the first time in a while and sounding as if she had just come out of a dream. Her eyes were clear when she looked at him though, the mind behind them as sharp as ever. "Targaryens saw noting strange in taking two wives, and there was half the kingsguard at the Tower of Joy with Lyanna. Father told us some of the story: Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. And they had to have been there even before the battle of the Trident, because they were not in that battle, nor in King's Landing. Don't you see, Jon? Rheagar deprived himself of half his guard to protect you and your mother. All that could not have been just to protect a lover and her child."

Jon had heard tht theory before. It did not convince him much. "That's just speculation, Sansa."

But his newfound sister did not seem to be listening.

"By the time father got to you, the children of the Mad King had already left for Essos and your were the only surviving son of the crown prince… and heir to the Iron Throne."

There was twinge inside Jon whenever he heard those words spoken around him; he flinched from the idea as if one would from the touch to an open wound. But Sansa was looking at him as if the realization, the full connotations of the meaning behind his existence was finally hitting home.

Jon was quick to cut it before it was born. "I am a man of the Night's Watch. I have taken my vows twice, my place is at the Wall."

But Sansa shook her head, as if to deny him. "No, I was thinking... You see, I have been thinking more and more about father these days. And you remind me of him so much Jon." There was infinite tenderness in her eyes as she said that, and such a sweet smile on her face that it stunned him into silence. He could say nothing. "And it has been puzzling me, how he could have kept such a secret for such a long time. It must have weighted on him so heavily. But I think I know now why he did it, how he could never waver."

Jon did not miss a word even though she spoke softly.

"He saw the bodies of the Targaryen children. Tywin Lannister had them wrapped in red cloaks and laid them out for Robert to see, right in the throne room. Father was there as well. And every time... _every time_ father would go in there, his eyes would fall to that same spot in front of the throne and there would be a strange look on his face. I wonder now, if there was some part of him that still expected to see those bodies there every time he walked into that room." Sansa's eyes had been vacant, turned inward as she remembered, but when her focus did return, it was like a swish of a blade that pinned Jon where he was. He did not dare breath too loudly.

"I suppose imagining you in one of those red cloaks has always been his reason for holding such a secret from everyone. Even from you. And later, the threat of another war..." And then her question came, and it was like a slap – so honest and blunt it was that Jon almost flinched. "Do you resent him Jon? For never telling you. For everything that it meant?"

Jon looked away with a sigh.

"I might have, once. I don't any more. I know where I belong now, I know my place and my purpose."

Sansa looked at him carefully, as if she was judging the truth in his words. Jon did not fret. He had spoken them from the bottom of his heart. His sister's smile after a moment told him that she understood.

"I'm glad, Jon." and her words almost sounded like thank you. But Sansa perhaps knew better than to thank him for something like that and Jon felt a rush of affection for her then. If he was to go on believing that they shared a father in heart, he could never accept being thanked for such a thing.

Arya got up quite suddenly and made for the door. She was angry. Jon however stopped her with one word. He said her name and her hand froze on the handle.

She did not turn as she spoke.

"You know, its great that you finally know who your mother is Jon. I am happy for you..." even though she sounded as anything but. "But I'm not gonna pretend I love the idea of losing another brother now that I just got you back. It's not fair, and I'm fucking angry and I'm not gonna pretend."

Jon got up and caught his sister by the shoulders, turning her to face him.

"You can't ever lose brothers once you make them, Arya. I think that is actually the one thing you can never lose, even when you want to." he held her shoulders more tightly and smiled down at her. She was so fierce and proud, his sister, and though she would rather scream than cry, he could see the beginnings of tears in her grey eyes. She would always have a compassionate soul, Jon knew that, even though she had been forced to grow stronger so fast. "You will always be my sister, and because of that, I will always be your brother. Right?"

She gave him a challenging stare, one that softened into hope as he looked at her without flinching from her strength and Arya finally found it in her to hug him.

Neither of them saw the look Sansa and Robb exchanged and that smile that was almost identical on their faces. It really was a wonder to be home again... and together. Sansa looked out of the window where the snow kept on falling. It was not a storm and it would most likely stop by tomorrow, just in time for the wedding. But still, Sansa got up, opened the pane and let the cold air fo the north envelop her in a chilly hugh. She opened her mouth hoping to taste the snowflakes, just as she used to when she was a child.

They tasted familiar. Of innocence and childhood... of Winterfell.

 _'Winter has come, father.'_ She thought as she opened her eyes and looked on the vast whiteness beyond. _'Finally, winter is here. Its a time for wolves.'_

oOo

He doesn't even remember what they have ended up speaking of, so sudden is Sansa's interruption. It must have been stories, he muses later, or war, or something of the like that would have undoubtedly bored Sansa silly. It must have been, because decidedly silly was the remark she made, so abrupt and disconcerting that in his mind it erased all memory of what he'd been speaking beforehand.

"Jon, don't you ever brush your hair?"

Jon turned to his sister, sitting by his side in the two-place sofa, with eyebrows raised so high on his forehead that they were making a try for his hairline…

He had expected her to be joking, but it had been so sudden that he didn't find it in him to laugh… and once he remembered, once the ridiculousness of her exclamation sunk in and he began to chuckle, it died in his throat, because Arya was wearing a wicked grin and Robb was rolling his eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like I've suddenly gone mad, brother?" she asks, all so seriously, as if she has a mind to get an answer. As if her question was oh so ordinary. He knows not what to say, so he keeps his silence. But is even more surprised when her hand reaches up as if nothing is ever the matter with it, and brushes the ends of his unruly curls.

"No offence, but your head looks like a bird has gone and died on top of your head."

Arya snorts.

"Don't take it personally Jon, she's been saying that to me for years."

Easy for Sansa to comment on that, Jon thinks, when her wavy hair is so easier to tend to, smooth and shiny like liquid flame. Jon and Arya have more to contend with – sometimes he feels his hair as a complete mind of its own really… not that he's ever thought about it that way. The only reason why he ever cared about his hair is so that it wouldn't get in is eyes.

But then Sansa gets up with a serene smile on her face and Jon dismisses his sisters strange outburst. He tries to pick up his discussion with Robb wherever they ad left it, but the strange thing is… he does not remember where that was.

But then Sansa comes back, armed with a brush and when he feels it tugging on his scalp, he jumps.

"Sansa… what are you doing?"

Her eyes are so perfectly innocent though, despite his voice having gone an octave higher at her antics. Robb is hardly bothering to hide his chuckles.

"Brushing your hair of course." His sister says, amiable, sweet smile in place like armour against all doubt.

Jon can help but smile, even as wraps his hand around her wrist and pushes it away from his hair. "I'm not one of your dolls, sister." he says indulgently. And how he likes the way the word rolls on his tongue. it's almost an endearment. He had sisters again and it's wonderful to think of them that way and have them both there with him . He is so happy about it that he doesn't even fight so hard when Sansa brushes his hands with flutters of her long fingers, narrowing blue eyes at him with a smile - less sweet this time, more sure.

"I haven't played with dolls since I was three, Jon." she says, and its as if its meant to mean something to him.

"You best let her have her way. After all, when even Arya endures it..." Robb's words hang in the air, as if Arya's enduring this is some kind of unspoken bar or patience between all of them... and knowing Arya's impatience for pampering and hair brushing, careful dressing and perfuming, it really should be.

But then Jon remembers... its what Sansa used to do once, a long time ago, for Bran and Rickon and even Robb, but she's never done it for him. And now she wants to brush his hair, like she's a child again, even though so much time has passed and all has changed and they have never been so close in the first place. It feels like play should feel, though Jon cannot know. But he indulges his newfound sister with an eye-roll, because he loves who she is now as he loved her as best he could for who she was then.

The kind of smile she gave him when he pulled his hands away and surrendered made it worth it. It felt like a victory to make her smile that way, as if she was a child again. Gods she'd changed so much... if she wanted to brush his hair like he was some silly little girl, or even a doll, who was he to deny her? Who was he to deny her anything, much less this!

He sighs and leans back in resignation.

"Oh, stop pouting." Sansa said with the singsong voice of her two and ten years, thoughtless laughter afterwards confirms its a knowing jest.

"I don't _pout_." Jon said gravely. He was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for gods' sake! …perhaps he brooded sometimes, but he most certainly did not _pout_.

"Yes you do. And it looks adorable on you, doesn't it Arya?" Sansa continues, Making Robb bust out laughing.

Jon rolled his eyes and only sighs, utterly taken over.

"You should wave flowers in his pretty hair." Arya picks up, smiling wickedly. Jon fills his fist with a tiny pillow and throws it at her head, but she ducks with a laugh and makes a face at him.

oOo

A fortnight. Fourteen days in Winterfell and he was still stalling. He felt like a fool, but he could not make himself move. He stood in front of the gates of the crypts, still and silent in the hours of the morning and thought back to the dream that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. He had been thinking about going down there for days, and still didn't have the courage to walk those steps and go into that darkness that was no longer a dream. Winterfell was no rubble now, no ruin. There were no bones in the stables, there were plenty of people around; even now, as he stood there like a madman, staring at a wooden door as if it might eat him, he was surrounded by the bustle.

This was no dream, this was real.

He had always known that there was something down there, in those crypts that called to him. Had his mother's spirit been so disquieted that it had called to him, even after so long? Had she been angry that he'd never once gone to see her down there? Bring her winter roses, as his father always did. A crown of winter roses for his dead sister…

_His mother…_

He had spoken of her and asked of her, listened to others tell stories of her… and yet he had yet to go and pay his respects to her last resting place.

_Coward!_

Jon takes a deep breath and descends those steps, darkness enveloped him. He walks slowly down the halls. The Kings of winter stare at him from their stone thrones, their swords in their laps. It wasn't them he'd always dreaded. In his hand the flowers feel like iron: heavy and sharp. He had chosen on his own not to take a torch. He didn't need one to know the way, and the candle he has lit serves his purpose well enough. It was not darkness either, that he had always feared.

His heart starts to beat faster and faster and his hands sweat. The thorns of the roses bite at him. But instead of screaming for anything or anyone, instead of the darkness eating at him like in his dreams, he sees a small light that pierces the shadow.

 _This is not dream_ , he tells himself, he is being silly, as stupid as Arya always said he was. _This is real and its happening_ … and in the dream there had been no light waiting for him at the end of his walk, only the darkness of what he had never known and always feared. But he knew now… he knew what he was looking for, what pulled him here. _Who_ pulled him here. And that light piercing the dark was no vision, but a single candle.

When he saw her, he thought it was lady Stark… but then she turned and though the long red hair was the same, Sansa's face greeted him, tear streaked and frail with pain.

She smiled when she looked at him and wiped away the tears more gracefully than Arya ever would have but with that same edge of anger, as if they were treasonous for even being there in the first place.

"Hello Jon." she said simply. "I'll leave you."

his words came so fast that it was moments before his mind had caught up with them

"No, stay. Please."

he doesn't want to be alone in here. And maybe he really is as stupid as his fierce sisters tells him, but he really needs her to stay, because he found her here and that in his mind is no coincidence.

He doesn't want her to leave him alone with ghosts.

He looks at their father's tomb, at where his bones were. Over the lid there were a dozen white roses and a long, wickedly sharp dagger resting among them. There was a stain of red on its blade.

He looked at Sansa, saw it in her eyes. Flowers and daggers, and blood on steel.

_I promise…_

Jon extended a hand and she took it without the smallest hesitation. She walked him, not too far, just a few steps away from lord Stark's resting place to where his sister's statue stood. Lyanna.

Jon looked at the statue for a long time. Time flowed like a river around him. He didn't noticed it passing. All he knew was the roses in his palm, thorns cutting his flesh, Sansa's hand warm in his other hand and his mother's face, those strong features cut in stone. A small smile on her lips, secretive, as if she knew something you did not.

What had she been like, he wondered? Would she be proud of him? Was she at peace, finally? He had dreamt of Winterfell's crypts often even after he came to know his parentage, and after that, the fear he'd felt of the unknown that called to him had changed. Jon did not scream in is dreams anymore.

He still woke up sweating though.

"They say that she was very beautiful." Sansa said in a whisper that echoed against the walls and his ears. He was grateful for the interruption.

Yes, Lyanna had been beautiful. Everyone said so. There were those who said that her beauty had torn apart a realm. Those that could forget that a father and a brother had died for her beauty. That she was the woman who brought a dynasty of kings to ruin.

Had she been selfish then? Jon wondered. Had she left willingly, or had she been kidnapped? Had she loved, or was he the child of rape?

Which was worse?

Questions tormented him like a bed of thorns.

"And father always said that she had been as wild and unruly as Arya. I think the reason Arya was is favourite as a girl was that she reminded him so much of her."

She speaks smiling. She is trying to soothe him, he realizes… and it softens his heart to know her capable of it. His thumb makes a small circle on the back of the hand he is holding like it's a lifeline in the dark. His sisters are so different and so is the love they give him. He adores them both for those differences.

"Remember how everyone always said that you looked so much like father. All people see when they look at you is Ned Stark's face. I think all _father_ saw when he looked at you was the sister he had loved."

Jon does not tell her that he has thought the same thing often. Instead he squeezed her hand tighter. Her other warm palm came to cover his. She leaned on his arm, wrapped her hand around his elbow, her head against his shoulder. Half an embrace. Jon wished he could open his mouth and say something like thank you, but it wouldn't make sense.

"I could make a crown of those, if you like." she offers, softly. Gently.

Jon shakes his head. "It's alright." he finally says, and his voice sounds strange.

… he hadn't even felt the tears leaving him, hadn't noticed the wet descent down his cheeks.

He lays the roses at his mother's feet. His palm comes away dotted with tiny red punctures, but it doesn't stay that way for long. Sansa takes it and with a piece of cloth that he has no idea where she found, she brushes the blood away. He looks away from his mother's face to his sisters. She isn't looking at him. She is looking at his hand, carefully dabbing away prickles of blood he can't even feel. Her hands come up to his face then, dab the streaks his tears made as well, and he can't help the tired sigh, the slump of his shoulders. The sadness that gnaws at him feels unbearable, here among the ghosts of parents he never had. He's rarely felt his loneliness so keenly.

So it really is a blessing, a sign, truly, that the gods love him, when Sansa wraps her arms around his middle and pulls him into an embrace as strong as her arms are able to make it. For the briefest moment he seems not to recall what to do. It has been such a long time since anyone has held him, for the simple sake of holding him, of comfort. But though the action is almost forgotten, the feel of the emotion behind it shoots though everything else… and it warms him. So Jon lets his arm hold her back, and leans on her almost, hiding his face in her hair that smells of pine and freshness. And there in the arms of comfort, he can finally breathe without feeling death around him or the suffocation of the past. There are no questions pounding against his brain, of all the things he'd never know. There is only she who cares for him and still calls him brother, and the comfort she is willing to give him.


	15. Author Note

Hello there, to anyone and everyone who still cared enough to return to this story after almost 2 years of non activity. First of all, thank you. For reading, and commenting and helping me write and enjoying this story with me. 

It hasn't been exactly my choice to stay away, but it happened, so here we are. I have been trying for some time to pick up this story and tell it the way i like, but I find myself unable to do so. I did however think that the least I could do, for everyone who read and loved it, was share some of my notes. 

Usually, I write out key scenes before i write almost anything else, and then pieces it all back together. These scenes are almost like, the turning points of the story, emotionally or even plot-wise, so there might be some nice things in there, but there's also a lot of useless crap in the form of just moments between character. I'll post all of it, and hopefully give this tale a kind of close. 

I didn't want to add it here and mess with the format this story already has, so I made this into a series. The second part will have some Jon-Sansa scenes I'd planned, and the third is the rest of the 'missing scenes' 

Anyway - i know it's not much. And I know that it's not what i promised bringing you into this. But for now it's all i can do. 

Thank you, again, for all the help, the encouragement and the love you all have given me. it's been an honor. 


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